Exiled
by darcyfarrow
Summary: To protect Henry, the gang leaves Rumplestiltskin behind in Neverland. When she learns why, even Belle doubts whether he should be given a second chance. Cover by Emilie Brown-check out her lovely work on DeviantArt!
1. Chapter 1

The town is too absorbed in its welcome-home celebrations and its post-Pan self-congratulations to notice the lone librarian standing at the foot of the gangplank. She searches each face hopefully, her eyes widening in surprise as David and Snow herd a dozen children past her toward waiting cars. Side by side, Emma and Henry follow, and just a half-pace behind them is the man that Belle's Lacey memories tell her is Baelfire–presumed dead, but now miraculously brought home.

Hook, the last to leave the ship, is alone, just as Belle is. He stops at the head of the gangplank, watches her as her eyes frantically scan his ship. He runs his hand through his hair as he deliberates. Anyone can see what she's thinking, especially a man who's devoted a good deal of time studying women's body language; anyone can sympathize with her, even a man who's devoted his life to seeking revenge.

Well, he's the victor now; he can afford to show some mercy. And maybe he owes the lass a little something, after his less-than-honorable attacks upon her.

He approaches Belle and clears his throat. "Ah, Miss, ah, French, I have some news for you. I'm afraid it's not good." _Not_ _good_ _for_ _you_, _but_ _absolutely_ _delightful_ _for_ _me_.

Her face is caught between hope and dread. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

Hook finds it doesn't feel as good as he had expected it would to dig the dagger in one last time. He decides to get right to it, then, get it over with and then he can catch up to the others. If Emma won't allow him into her celebratory circle, he can always align with Regina. He arranges his features into a mask of sympathy and touches her shoulder. "The Croc-ah, Rumplestiltskin didn't come with us. He remains on the island. Permanently."

Now she manages a word. "W-w-what?"

"There was a vote," Hook shrugs. "He was found guilty and it was determined he should be left behind, barred from all society."

"He's. . .alone?"

"He can't be trusted, Belle. Surely you understand that." When she shakes her head, he persists. "He hasn't changed, no matter how fervently you wish he had. He will do anything, destroy anyone, to get what he wants."

"No," Belle insists. "He has a good heart. I've–"

"No, Belle." Hook squeezes her shoulder. "He tried to kill Henry."

"What? No. . . ." She sways and he has to support her.

"The day before the kidnapping. Henry was at the playground, and the Crocodile used his magic to stage an accident. Snow and Charming interrupted, else Henry would have been killed."

"That's a lie," Belle explodes. "He wouldn't-he loves children–he loves Henry–Henry is Baelfire's son!"

"He would have killed Henry then, if he hadn't been caught red-handed, and the only reason he went to Neverland was to finish the job."

"No. Why are y-you would do anything to get your revenge–"

"You can ask Snow or Emma." He makes his voice soft. "Or Baelfire. I'm sorry, lass. You deserve better." His good deed done, he walks away.

* * *

"We had no choice, Belle." To be heard over the laughter and the music, Snow has drawn Belle out to the alley behind Granny's. "He's too powerful to be stopped. The jail couldn't hold him. Leaving him behind was the only way to protect Henry."

"He wouldn't hurt a child! I lived with him for nearly a year in the Enchanted Forest; I've seen how he is with children. He adores them and he cherishes Henry!"

"He confessed, Belle. In front of all of us, he admitted he'd tried to kill Henry in order to circumvent a prophecy that predicted Henry would be his downfall." Snow gives the news time to sink in, but Belle fights it, shaking her head.

"You must have misunderstood."

"He admitted to it to Baelfire. We had no choice. Rumplestiltskin had to be banished. I'm sorry, Belle. In time, I'm sure you'll see we had no choice." With a last pitying glance, Snow walks away.

* * *

"Yeah. That's what he said." Bae's eyes shift uncomfortably. Emma is waiting across the street; he's anxious to leave, but when Belle phoned he felt her owed her something, though he doesn't really know her, so he came to the pink house. Like Snow, he assumes that once Belle is convinced of the truth, she'll begin to let go. She's a young woman, resilient; she will mourn, but eventually she will bury her memories and move on with her life.

Baelfire, on the other hand. . . .

"But to leave him behind–to abandon him–I understand it may have felt like it was only fair, after what he did to you, but–"

"That's not why we did it," Bae snaps. "And we all did it. We all decided."

"You didn't have to banish him. If he promised he'd never hurt Henry, he wouldn't go back on his word."

Bae emphasizes each word. "Yes, Belle, he would. He has."

An idea pops into her head and she seizes his arm. "The dagger! What if he gives you–"

"I thought of that, Belle. He claims his shadow hid it and it can't be found." Bae runs his hand over his mouth and glances out the window to the yellow Bug, where Emma waits. "I told him to send the shadow to go get it, but he claimed he'd ordered the shadow to refuse that request. He hasn't changed. He's a liar, a cheat and a killer, and I won't put my son or this town at risk by allowing him back here."

"He's a good man." But Belle's voice wavers.

"Do yourself a favor, Belle." Bae waves his hand around the house. "Don't stay here. Find a place where he's never been. Buy new clothes, a new hairstyle, get rid of anything that reminds you of the past, because he's not coming back." And Bae walks away.

* * *

Belle sits in the chair at the head of the dining table in the big pink house. Darkness has fallen but she hasn't turned on the lights, nor has she cooked dinner for herself. She sits with a cold cup of tea in her hands (but not the chipped cup; she can't bear to touch it just now). She tries to remember every nice thing about him: every kindness, every thoughtfulness, every mercy he's shown anyone. It doesn't take long, and visions of Henry keep interrupting.

Right now, it takes all the courage she has to face the truth: Rumple tried to kill Henry.  
Bae is right. Infatuation fooled her into seeing a man where there was only a monster. A child-killing monster.

* * *

An impromptu town meeting is called at Granny's to discuss the Sad Lady on the Hill. That's what the kids have taken to calling Belle, for since the _Jolly_ _Roger's_ return three months ago, no one has seen her on the streets, in Granny's, or even in the library, which Snow is attempting to run. Only Clark, who delivers groceries to the pink house once a week, has spoken to her; she won't open the door to Ariel or Ruby and won't return Archie's calls.

"It's been months," Ruby grumps, turning expectantly to Emma.

"She's not doing anything illegal. I can't force her to come out. I talked to the bank: she co-owns the house and all his properties. She's within her rights to live there as long as she wants."

"But it's not healthy," Snow objects. "She used to be a lively, gregarious person. Isn't there anything you can do?" She turns to Archie.

"She hasn't done anything to indicate she's a danger to herself or others," Hopper answers. "All I can do, all any of us can do, is keep reaching out. Let her know that when she's ready, we'll be glad to help her."

"And if she's never ready?" Ruby folds her arms.

No one answers.

But in the back of the restaurant, Regina, uninvited but having shown up to the meeting anyway, listens. She smiles smugly: if Rumple could see what his selfish actions have wrought, he'd find that damn dagger and stab himself with it.

Beside Regina, Hook sips a whisky sour in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**A/N. Thank you, Grace, for noticing something I hadn't! I dedicate this story to you.**

* * *

Thanksgiving comes, and though Ruby snail-mails an invitation to Belle to celebrate the holiday at the Lucas home, Belle fails to reply. Thanksgiving goes.

Christmas comes, and Ariel knocks on the door of the pink house to invite Belle to go caroling on Christmas Eve. No one opens the door. Christmas goes.

New Year's Eve comes and the reunited lovers in Storybrooke forget, momentarily, about Belle. But on New Year's Day, Ruby resolves she'll figure out a way to drag Belle back into the land of the living. Just as soon as the diner's not so busy.

On January 21, Archie Hopper, having served in the fall as mayor pro tem, is sworn in as mayor of Storybrooke. Regina still has a year left on her term and the citizens didn't bother with a recall election when she returned from Neverland, but it was just generally assumed she wouldn't resume her seat in local government. She has the good sense to not fight this particular battle; the job had become stale, anyway, she tells Hook; now she has time to devote to planning her investment portfolio. The captain just raises an eyebrow.

* * *

The Sad Lady on the Hill has broken her self-imposed exile, but to everyone's surprise, it's not Archie or Ariel or Ruby that brings her out of the pink house: it's the nuns to whom she turns. Her father, upon hearing this, is insulted. "She won't take my calls, but she'll talk to strangers? We're not even religious."

Nevertheless, Belle is seen walking from the pink house to the convent, even though it's winter and the hike is more than three miles. She bundles herself in his coat and walks in broad daylight through Gold Estates, then follows the highway out of town to the secluded convent. When Regina's housekeeper calls her friend Granny to report this juicy gossip, and Granny tells Ruby and Ruby calls Emma and Emma calls her mother, Snow wonders, not, as everyone else does, why Belle has chosen the nuns, but what Belle means by wearing his coat. Is it an act of defiance, a screw-you to the people who exiled her lover? Is it her attempt to make them feel guilty? Is it her way of clinging to his memory? Whatever it means, Archie agrees, it's not healthy.

If anyone were to ask her (and no one ever does), Belle would've cleared up the mystery with eight simple words: "I don't have a coat of my own." And then Storybrooke would have remembered Regina's thirty-year imprisonment of Belle, and perhaps the gossip would have changed direction.

Clutching his coat tightly about her, Belle braves the wind and the stares, and she marches up to the convent, where the nuns usher her in, settle her in the warm kitchen and Astrid offers her coffee and soup before Mother Superior is sent for. "May I speak to you alone, please?" Belle asks, and rather than take her away from her cozy spot beside the stove, Blue sits down at the kitchen table and the other nuns scurry away, closing the door behind them. Blue pours herself a cup of coffee and gives Belle the broadest of openings: "How are you, Belle?"

It's obvious how Belle is. Her face is thin; her shoulders bowed; her eyes shadowed. She's been cutting her hair herself so she doesn't have to go out in public, and she hasn't done a very good job of it. She stares at the ring of moisture her coffee cup has left on the kitchen table, breaks the ring by slashing a finger through it. Her fingernails are jagged: Blue concludes she's been biting them. Belle shrugs and offers no other answer to the question.

"Do you think they did the right thing?" she blurts.

Blue buys time to compose an answer. "They who?"

But she knows full well what Belle means, and Belle knows it too. Belle pulls a mouth. "They! Snow and Emma and David and Regina and Hook. Leaving Rumple behind, alone on the island: was that the right thing?"

Blue tries to think of a response that will put Belle's mind at ease, but of course there is none, and to pretend otherwise would be disrespectful to Belle. "I think it was the only thing they could do," she says gently. "To protect Henry. To serve justice. If he didn't have magic, he could be jailed. If he wasn't immortal–" and then Blue remembers to whom she's talking and bites her lip.

Belle curls back her lips, Rumple-style, and finishes the sentence. "If he wasn't immortal, they'd kill him."

"The penalty for murder in our old land is execution. Rumplestiltskin killed a great many people in the Enchanted Forest, and his attack upon Henry shows he has no compunction against killing here either." Blue pauses, then allows emotion to get the better of her: "A child, Belle! He would have killed an eleven-year-old child!"

Belle's voice drops to a whisper. She's had months to think about it, to conjure excuses and test them to see if they can hold up as a defense, but every excuse has come up short. All she can say now is "Yes."

Blue realizes there is no progress to be made in arguing about the banishment, so she takes another tactic. "You have a lot of friends in this town, Belle, a lot of supporters, and we're all concerned about you. You seem to have decided to exile yourself too."

Anger flashes in Belle's eyes. "What if I have? It's my life."

"No, Belle," the nun pushes. "It's God's. He gave it to you for a reason. Don't you think you owe it to Him to find out what that reason is?" When Belle starts to reply, Blue cuts her off. "You may think your duty is to help Rumplestiltskin, but if that were the case, you wouldn't be in Storybrooke when he's in Neverland. Perhaps it was God's plan for you at one time to serve as Rumple's moral compass, but that time has passed. God has new work for you now; a new life is waiting."

"I think you're wrong." Belle looks Blue squarely in the eye. "Rumple is my True Love; my duty is and always will be with him. If–" then she corrects herself. "_Since_ he was desperate enough to attempt to hurt Henry, he needs help more than ever. He needs me."

"Belle, you have one of the gentlest, kindest hearts in the realm. Don't waste it on a monster. Rumplestiltskin chose his path long ago and not even you and his son together can lead him from it. He's pure evil. It's better for all of us that he is where he is-it's better for you, too. He would only drag you down with him."

Belle starts to object, but Blue reminds her: "He would have killed his own grandson, a child he's known since infancy. That's the worst act I can imagine. Can't you see how monstrous that is?"

"You haven't heard his side. How can you judge him when you don't know what's in his heart?"

For a moment, Blue becomes all fairy, casting aside all she learned as a nun: "Attempting to kill a child is enough for me to know that there's only evil in that monster's heart and that he's beyond hope!"

Belle gasps, and Blue forces herself to calm down. "I'm sorry, Belle. I'm not being very helpful, am I? And I assume that's why you came."

"I came to the wrong place." Belle stands. "I'm sorry I wasted your–"

"No, no, Belle," Blue urges. "I'm sorry. It was uncharitable of me to speak that way. Please sit down. You must have come to me for a reason; give me a chance to fulfill it. I promise to listen and not judge."

Belle narrows her eyes; she knows about the longstanding feud between her beloved and Blue, and she wonders if she was wrong to expect the nun side of Blue's persona to be strong enough to overcome that emnity. But there's only one other person who could answer the question she came to ask, and she doubts if Regina would be any more charitable than Blue. She sits down again and takes a sip of coffee, now lukewarm, to give her time to gather her thoughts. Blue waits patiently, also sipping her coffee.

"I came to ask if there's a way to communicate across realms, apart from sending messages back and forth with mermaids." Belle smiles ruefully. "Ariel is a good friend, but she has her own life to lead. And passing notes back and forth through a mermaid isn't the best way for lovers to communicate."

"I can imagine," Blue mutters. "There are magic mirrors that allow inter-realm communication; if you could get Regina to give you a pair, Ariel could deliver one to Rumplestiltskin and then you could talk to him. If he's willing to talk."

Belle's eyebrows shoot up. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"He may be angry. . . or depressed. . . or he may feel it's best to make a clean break-"

"No," Belle says firmly. "He wouldn't break off with me without saying goodbye. And I won't give up on him until I hear from him what was in his heart the day he tried to kill Henry."

"He admitted his guilt to Baelfire, as I understand."

"But he also went off with the others to save Henry, fully expecting he would die in the fight. Doesn't that prove there's good in him?"

Blue's mouth pulls in a straight line but she remains silent.

"I need to hear from him which man he is: the one who would kill a child or the one who would die to save one."

Blue nods. "Will you be at peace, even if the answer is not the one you hope for?"

"Peace?" Belle repeats. "No, there's no peace for me, whatever the answer is. But if–" she can't speak the thought aloud, so she doesn't try. "Regina won't help me. She hates Rumple, despises me, and I have nothing to bargain with. How do get the mirrors?"

Blue swishes a spoon in her coffee as she thinks. She too has nothing likely to win the queen's cooperation. Then she remembers the look she's noticed quite a number of times in Hook's expression, and she thinks she's found a solution. "Regina seems to rely on Captain Jones, and Captain Jones, I think, though he still hates Rumplestiltskin, feels some remorse for hurting you. Ask him to help you. If he refuses, you'll be no worse off than before–but I suspect he won't refuse."

* * *

Mayor Hopper is meeting with the chief of the Parks & Rec Department; they're discussing the department's budget and spending priorities. "Oh, by the way," Archie says, "send someone out to Riverside Park, will you, to repair the swing. Spring will be here before we know it, and we don't want any kids getting hurt on it." He doesn't explain why the swing needs repair; it's best to put such ugliness behind.

* * *

Someone's following him.

Hook has lived the life of pirate a very long time, so his instincts, as well as his commitment to the preservation of his existence, are well honed. He ducks down the alley between the Marine Garage and the auto supply store, and when his stalker catches up, his hook snakes out to seize the individual's coat. He pulls the stalker in only to find it's Belle he's sneering at. He releases her and steps back.

"I was hoping to talk to you, Captain." Belle straightens Rumple's coat. "In private."

A double entendre pops into his head, but since this is Belle he's talking to, he squashes the urge to flirt. He has yet to assuage his guilt for his crimes against her. "I would offer to take you to my home, but I've been living at the inn, and if it's all the same with you, I'd prefer not to enter his house."

"Above the library. I have an apartment there. I'll meet you there in ten minutes." She walks off without further explanation and without waiting for his reply.

So she doesn't want to be seen in public with him. He finds that intriguing-until he wonders if she plans to take revenge on him. Gods know he's given her plenty of reason to want to.

When he approaches her apartment (it's dusty and the flowers in the vase on the kitchen table have died), he remains standing on the landing and she doesn't invite him to enter. This relieves him: the conversation will be brief, then.

Without preamble (which also means without accusations or threats) she asks him to obtain for her two enchanted mirrors from Regina: enchanted to permit communication between realms. She will pay any price.

He can easily guess what she intends the mirrors for. His price, he says, is her forgiveness for his attacks upon her.

She blinks at him in surprise, then squints in distrust, then finally nods.

He bows elegantly. He doesn't notice that her eyes suddenly fill with tears in memory of another who used bow to her so elegantly. When he straightens he promises that he will return with the mirrors (and he will, he promises himself, even if he has to steal them).

* * *

The chief of Parks & Rec calls Archie. "So my maintenance guy was out at Riverside Park this morning. He inspected all the playground equipment; nothing was out of order."

"Are you sure?" Archie scratches his head. "The rope on the swing–did he examine it?"

"Yeah. He took a photo; here, I'll email it to you so you can see for yourself. No damage."

"Not even a little fraying at the top?"

"None."

"Thank you." As he hangs up, Archie mutters to the Dalmatian sleeping under his desk, "Maybe it was a different playground?" He suggests to Pongo that they redirect their evening walk to the school, the only other public playground in town.

* * *

Hook mulls it over and decides the less Regina knows, the better. He's been around magic often enough to tell an enchanted mirror from an ordinary one, so when he dines with her that evening, he slips a little something into her drink. As soon as her cheek touches down on the dining table, he begins his search–in her bedroom, where he assumes a woman like her would keep mirrors and magic.

He's right.

* * *

Archie leaves his office early, so that it's still daylight when he and Pongo arrive at the school. He inspects each of the three swings: all of them are connected to the frame with stainless steel chains.

He has a good memory for detail; nevertheless, he phones Bae to confirm the specifics. "A rope swing? Riverside Park?. . . I'm asking because it's not adding up. Here, see for yourself." And he forwards a photo of the swing at Riverside Park.

* * *

There's no light on in the library apartment and no one answers the door. Hook realizes he's going to have to go to the pink house after all. He finds his feet drag on the short walk to Gold Boulevard.

She opens the door even before he knocks. He knows it was his heavy boots striking the wooden porch that warned her of his approach, but he can't help wondering just the same if there's magic in the walls of this house, as he heard there had been in the Dark Castle. Although it's past eleven, she's fully dressed; this information pleases him, for it means she trusted him to come through for her, and to do so tonight. He wastes no time telling her she was right. She takes the plastic grocery bag in which he's carried the mirrors (rather inglorious packaging for items so precious, but he had decided against stealing anything of value besides the mirrors).

"Thank you," she says stiffly. "And my end of the bargain: I forgive you for everything you did against me." She swallows hard and her resolve breaks. "Including trying to kill my beloved."

He starts to protest: he doesn't want her forgiveness on that score, because he was right, damn it, to seek justice for Milah. But the woman standing before him brushes her palm against her cheek to swipe away a tear, so he lets the matter drop. To his surprise and dismay, she steps aside, pulling the door wide. "Would you like to come in?"

He shakes his head, but he steps in anyway. He can't help it. He's heard of the luxury in which the Crocodile lives (_lived_, he corrects himself); he wishes to see it, to spy upon the place where his enemy was most relaxed, most vulnerable. And he's curious whether there might be something here of Milah's. He steps in and finds he's in a dining room, one smaller than the size of the house would suggest. There's a cello in one corner and a guitar in another. There are books piled upon the table, the Crocodile's coat draped across a chair, framed photos on the wall: Belle, of course; Henry, at various ages; Bae, taken recently, and from a distance.

Hook returns his attention to the living, breathing woman. Belle seems small in the sweater she's wearing, a gray pullover that's too big for her.

Hook turns away. It's all too personal. Too humanizing.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks, because that's what civilized people do when they've forgiven each other. She doesn't really want him to stay; she's anxious to test the mirrors.

"Another time, milady. Good luck with the magic," he says as he steps out onto the porch, "and other things." He escapes into the night. His duty is done; he can sleep tonight.

* * *

Archie's cozy in his twin bed, the _Storybrooke Mirror_ spread out on his lap, his pillows plumped behind his back, his dog already snoring in a plaid doggy bed in the corner of the bedroom. But Archie can't concentrate, though he should, on the editorial about the challenges facing the new city council. He keeps wondering about swings.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

Although Ariel lives in the inn and Eric lives across the street from the school, they are nearly inseparable; every evening and every weekend, they can be spotted strolling around town arm in arm or shopping together (Ariel's become quite the clotheshorse, now that she has legs to show off) or dining in one of Storybrooke's four restaurants. Gossip mongers wager that there will be a wedding before summer.

But the courtship will be slowed down by one day, for early one morning, Ariel is awakened by a tapping at her door, and she's surprised to welcome not her fiance or Ruby but rather the Sad Lady.

"Belle!" Ariel squeals, throwing her arms around her reclusive friend. "How are you? It's been months." She takes Belle by the hand and pulls her into the pretty little room, sits her down in a doily-covered rocking chair and studies her. Her smile fades. "You don't look well."

Belle dismisses the implied question. "I need your help, Ariel. I know you and Eric are really busy, but I need to ask a favor."

Ariel sits down on a corner of the bed. "Of course. How can I help?"

"I need to ask you to make a trip back to Neverland." Belle opens a tote bag and removes a pocket mirror sealed in a Baggie. She holds it out. It seems unimpressive until Ariel touches it and feels it vibrate. "I need for you to deliver this to Rumple."

Ariel considers the request as she examines the mirror. She hesitates because Snow, although not specifically prohibiting contact with the exiled one, has made it clear the imp is evil incarnate. To visit Rumplestiltskin, Ariel suspects, would be considered a violation, if not of the law, then of the spirit of the law. Eric too has spoken of the cruel Mr. Gold, expressing relief that the Bloodsucker Landlord is gone. Ariel settles for asking a question. "What is this?"

"It works with this." Belle shows her a matching mirror. "They make inter-realm communication possible."

Ariel suspects if she fulfills the request, Snow would rate it as providing aid and comfort to the enemy. But as she studies the mirror, she wonders if even a prisoner should be permitted some small comfort, and she is certain that Belle's love for the imp, however reviled by the inhabitants of this town it may be, is true and forever. Ariel must choose between loyalty to her new society and devotion to True Love.

As Eric would say, that's a no brainer. Ariel learned long ago that when True Love speaks, one should listen, even if it stirs up trouble. Ariel has a pretty good idea what it feels like to be wrenched from her chosen one, without so much as a chance to say goodbye, and it makes her mermaid blood boil. "I'll take it to him right away. I have the bracelet in here somewhere." She opens a dresser drawer and fishes around among her new, human clothes. She raises the magic bracelet in triumph. "Voila!"

"Thank you, Ariel." Belle gathers her tote bag in preparation to leave, but she hesitates; there's another question she needs to ask, and as an outsider, Ariel may have an objective view of things. As a Neverlander, she may have even seen or heard something that will answer the question. So, nervously twisting the handles of her tote, Belle plunges into her inquiry. "Ariel, you met Rumple and some of the other members of Henry's rescue squad."

"Yes." Ariel closes her dresser drawer and waits patiently for the question.

"Well, uh, I don't suppose you had the opportunity to spend much time with any of them, but, uh," Belle draws in a deep breath. "This is hard. . . .I suppose you know they left Rumple behind."

"Yes." Ariel sits down on the edge of her bed.

"And they're not allowing him to come back."

"Yes. I was told about that. I didn't understand why."

Belle is silent for a moment. "There was a prophecy that Henry would cause Rumple's death."

"But he's the Dark One, isn't he? And the Dark One is immortal, or so the legends say."

"The legends aren't completely accurate. He is immortal, but there is a way to–anyway, some of the rescue squad said that Rumple tried to kill Henry to prevent his own death. That's why they exiled him." Belle grasps Ariel's hands. "I know you had very little contact with any of our people on Neverland, but did you see or hear anything that would indicate their fears were founded?"

Ariel blanches. "That Rumplestiltskin would kill the child? No! Just the opposite. Rumplestiltskin intended to capture Pan in order to rescue Henry."

"He said nothing, did nothing that you saw, that would suggest he might harm Henry?"

"No!" Ariel exclaims.

"And Regina? You talked to her on Neverland; did she say anything–?"

"Regina!" Ariel snaps. "She kept her promise to me, but the seas will have dried up and turned to desert before I believe what she says. But to answer your question, no, she said nothing about Rumplestiltskin hurting anyone. I understood that they were working together and their intention was to capture Pan in that box they had me bring to them."

Belle stands and offers a hug. "Thank you, Ariel. Safe journey, my friend."

"I'll hurry back," Ariel promises. "Wait for me at the dock."

* * *

Ariel has no concept of time, having spent her life in the sea, so Belle has no idea how long the swim back to Neverland will take. She doesn't mind waiting on the dock, however; it's how she spent many an afternoon before the _Jolly_ _Roger_ returned. She has a thermos of coffee and his coat to keep her warm, and a paperback book (_The_ _Day_ _the_ _Cowboys Quit_, from Rumple's nightstand) in her tote bag to while the hours away. She's twenty pages into it before she admits to herself she hadn't retained a single sentence, so she pockets it and daydreams as she looks out to sea.

* * *

Archie takes a fifteen-minute lunch break from the budget meetings. He wonders how Regina found time to stir up trouble when running the municipal government takes so much of his day. And it will be a long day: when he finishes here at six he needs to walk Pongo before hurrying back to his psychiatry practice for back-to-back sessions with Henry and Snow. He'll be lucky if he gets to bed by midnight.

As he waits for his Cup o' Soup to microwave, he thinks about the unbroken swing. He's spread the word around town: whoever fixed the frayed rope is asked to call the mayor's office; a Citizen of the Month award will be presented this good samaritan. It's a fabrication, of course, but Archie wants to solve this mystery without raising suspicion. The microwave dings at the same time that the director of sanitation raps his knuckles on the door, and Mayor Hopper is off and running again.

* * *

It's nice to be home, now that Pan is gone. Ariel activates the magic in her bracelet, and when her tail morphs into legs, she splashes through the water onto the beach. The island is strangely quiet without the Boys. Ariel knows the mermaids and the pixies have remained, so Rumplestiltskin isn't completely alone, but they're cliquish creatures, unlikely to admit an imp into their social circles. At least he has his magic.

She's barely out of the water before he appears before her. She wonders if he, like Pan before him, has somehow tapped into the magic of the island: how else would he know of her arrival?

His expression is devoid of emotion–or, she admits, perhaps his emotions are too subtle for her to read. She's learned from Eric that air-dwellers, unlike her own people, tend to be guarded, self-protective. In their short time together, Eric has had to learn to put into words what his heart is feeling, and she has had to learn to watch for tiny signs that suggest his moods. And that's Eric, who wants to share himself with her: Rumplestiltskin is on the opposite end of the spectrum. Interpreting his feelings is an impossible task, so she quickly gives up trying. She's just here to make a delivery, anyway.

As she cautiously greets him, she brings to mind the memory of their brief meeting three months ago; he's changed dramatically since then. Gone is his black leather armor; he wears gray now, a fabric she can't identify, perhaps something he conjured. His cheeks have hollowed, a fact she can discern even beneath a thick black-and-gray beard. There's a bruising under his eyes which mirrors the shadows under Belle's. Yet, after a slight nod in reply to her greeting, he stands perfectly still, giving nothing away.

She comes no closer. He makes her nervous. Then in a stroke of genius or luck she breaks through his emotional armor with three words: "Belle sent me."

His face crumbles and he takes a step forward, hand outstretched, before he catches himself. He hardens his features again, but it's too late and he realizes that; besides, whatever she sees, she will report back to Belle, and he realizes that too. His eyes shift to the sand, as though he's embarrassed to be caught in such disarray. His eyes remain lowered as he asks, "Is she all right?"

"She'll be better now, I think." Now Ariel dares to approach the Dark One. The closer she gets, the less frightening he appears. From a distance, he seems much taller. "She's waiting to talk to you." Ariel reaches into the water-tight pouch strapped to her waist.

As soon as she reveals her gift, he recognizes it and his eyes light up as they connect with hers, but then he shakes his head and takes a step back, as though she's Eve (or Regina) offering him an apple.

Ariel gapes at him. "Here's your chance to talk to her, face to face. What's wrong with you?"

"I can't go back," he says.

"But you can talk to her!" Ariel insists, thrusting the mirror at him.

He won't take it. "It would only make things worse. False hope. . . for both of us."

"What?" Perhaps, Ariel thinks, it's those confounded human emotions again that she will probably never understand. Why do these air-breathers have to make everything so hard? Must be all that exposure to oxygen, she thinks; it's unhealthy for the brain. "Look!" she thrusts the mirror at him again, but again he refuses it. "She's waiting! She's sitting on the dock with the other mirror in her hands. She's been waiting for hours. What do you want me to tell her? That you were too busy to talk to her?"

"No, of course not, I–" He lowers his eyelids as he realizes he's almost fallen into the trap. "Tell her to forget me. To move on with her life. To find happiness."

"What a load of sea foam," she mutters. "If someone had given me a chance like this, I'd have dived at it." Before he can react, she seizes his wrist, digs her nails into the tender flesh on the underside, and when his hand opens reflexively she pushes the mirror into it. "I don't know how these things work, but–Belle! Can you hear me?"

The surface of the mirror liquifies, then solidifies again upon Belle's image.

"You're cold," Rumple exclaims, touching the mirror with a finger of his free hand. "Your fingernails are blue. Belle, you'll get sick, sitting out in the wind like that."

"Rumple!" Belle bursts into a grin and, like him, strokes her mirror. "Rumple, are you all right? Gods, look at you. You're half-starved."

His beard hides the quiver in his lips. "No caretakers for this new, rather large estate of mine."

"Rumple, promise me, you'll take care of yourself. I won't have you coming home to me a scarecrow; do you hear me?" Belle somehow manages to laugh and cry at the same time. "Because you are, you are coming home to me–"

"No, Belle, we have to face reality–"

"No, listen to me! You are coming home, or I'm coming to you–"

"It's not possible–"

"It is! Everything's possible when it's for love."

"No, sweetheart, you need to–"

"Don't tell me what I need, Rumplestiltskin! I need you, and you need me, and love will make that happen." Her image shimmers and her voice starts to fade, as though she's being pulled away. "Rumple? What's happening? You're disappearing."

"It's Neverland. Its magic is interfering with–" He jerks his finger away as though he's been burnt. "With Regina's magic?" He blinks. "Did Regina give you these mirrors?"

"Not exactly. Rumple, I can't see you any more."

"Higher ground," he decides, looking around for higher elevation. "If I get off the ground. . . ."

"Before we lose the connection," Belle says, "tell me you believe in us."

"Eagle Peak. It's the tallest place on the–"

"Rumple! I can barely hear you. Quick, say it before it's too late. Please!"

Belle's image has vanished now, but Rumplestiltskin strokes the mirror again. "Belle! I believe in us."

"I love–"

And now Belle's voice fades out.

He stares at the mirror a moment longer, then raises naked eyes to Ariel. "I can get her back again," he says, and for a moment Ariel thinks he means he will somehow be reunited with his beloved; then he turns and looks off into the distance. "The peak. I can get away from the interference, and then I can talk to her again." He raises a hand and summons magic to it.

"You will get her back again," Ariel assures him–but she means far more than reestablishing the mirror connection. Then Ariel corrects herself. "Or more likely, she will get you back."

Rumple remembers his manners and gestures to the mirror. "Thank you."

As he vanishes, no doubt to transport himself to the peak, Ariel tosses a last thought at him. "Let me tell her you promised to get a decent meal tonight! The Lost Boys maintained a large garden just east of their–" He's gone before she can finish her sentence.

Ariel sighs as she walks back into the ocean. It wasn't, after all, such a long journey; she wouldn't mind making additional trips later on, if Belle wants to send her beloved some clothes or some cookies.

Two hours later, Ariel emerges from the sea to find Belle still sitting on the dock, huddled in the oversized black coat and shivering, but unaware the sun has set, the temperature has dropped and it's past suppertime. Belle is chattering into the mirror, so Ariel simply shakes her head and walks back into town. Some things, she knows from experience, matter more than meals.

* * *

"Belle, we need to talk about. . . why I'm here. Why they left me here."

"No," she says firmly. "I don't believe it. Hook was behind this, wasn't he? Or Regina."

The sun is setting in Neverland, so he conjures a torch so that she can see his face clearly in the mirror and read the truth. "What did they tell you?"

"Something awful. Lies."

He pauses and his voice chills. "Did they tell you I tried to kill Henry?"

"I don't believe it, Rumple."

"You should."

Belle's lips move silently.

"Long ago, I met a Seer."

Her heart pounds in her ears, drowning his voice. "No. . . ."

He continues, something about finding Bae and unraveling a rope; she doesn't catch it all; she's heard this story before anyway.

"He would have plummeted to his death on the jagged rocks," Rumple says. "Except I was interrupted. Snow and David drove up and I had to stop. And then they told me Bae had been shot, and they told me about the impending destruction of Storybrooke, and. . . I thought, this is my way out. Because if Bae is dead I can't live with it, I don't deserve to–"

"Rumple–"

"It was my fault, you see? Every bit of it. What happened to him, what happened to you. All because I took that damn dagger and killed Zoso. Even before then, because I was too weak and too fearful to save my son from Hordor." He covers his eyes with a hand. "And to kill my grandson to save my own worthless hide–the worst kind of monster, Belle. This punishment, this banishment, is far too little for what I've done and what I would have done, if I hadn't been interrupted."

Belle stares in horror, but he won't uncover his eyes. He leaves her with no choice but to accept what she's fought for three months to deny. "You would have killed a child."

He lowers his hand so she can see his eyes. "Yes."

She casts the mirror into the sea. Drawing deep into his coat, she walks away from the dock.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Belle? Belle?" Rumplestiltskin taps the mirror, though he can feel magic vibrating smoothly through it. He stares into the mirror a while longer, just in case.

Sometime late into the night, he accepts what's happened. He starts to throw the mirror away, but changes his mind. Just in case.

But it's best, he tells himself. It's what's right for her, to leave him behind; anger will push her into starting a new life. And it's what's easiest for him.

Because there's nothing more damaging than false hope.

* * *

Belle takes one of his suitcases (one of a set he'd bought the morning he solved the problem of the town-line curse). She'll bring it back later, out of principle, but for now she needs a way to carry her clothes from Gold Estates to the town square and her almost-abandoned apartment above the library.

She will speak to Mayor Hopper tomorrow about opening the library. Maybe at last they can get around to finishing the restoration that took a backseat to all the evil that had been visited upon the town: The wraith and Cora and Hook and Tamara and Greg. Evil that can be, that rightfully must be, traced back to Rumplestiltskin.

If Hopper rejects her re-application, she will ask Granny for a job. The diner's been doing a booming business since the rescuers–"Henry's Heroes," the _Mirror_ calls them–returned. The rescuers have been feted collectively and individually, even Hook, who's spent two months locked up after pleading no contest to assault charges against Belle: a steady parade of young women dropped in during the jail's visiting hours to bring sweets, flowers and phone numbers.

Generally, Belle avoids reading the _Mirror_. Though it's no longer Regina-slanted, it's been dancing a verbal jig on Gold's metaphorical grave.

Belle's journey takes her past the pawnshop. She tries to avoid looking in; monitoring it is Emma's job. There have been break-ins, thefts, these past three months. Emma has been urging Belle to make a decision to sell or open the shop: an occupied building is much less a target. Belle has refused, though her name, as the banker has shown her, is on every document of ownership. She has the legal right to do as she will with all of his properties (1.25 billion dollars' worth: amazing how much power a few well-placed zeroes have).

She has the legal right, and no one would question it; her father might even emerge from the woodwork if she did start spending that money. But she hasn't been; she's been living off the cash Rumple left in his wall safe at home. When the letter carrier brings her envelopes bearing rent checks (she suspects most tenants have stopped paying altogether) she's been stacking them neatly onto the desk in Rumple's office. She's been paying the light and heating bills on Gold Mansion; it's part of a caretaker's responsibilities, like dusting. But beginning tomorrow, she will surrender those responsibilities to the bank.

She supposes the mansion will be put up for sale, though who can afford it? Perhaps the bank will sell it at a fraction of its value, giving the town one last laugh at the imp's expense. Perhaps lookie-loos will traipse through it, gawking at his office, his basement, their bedroom. Perhaps they'll snatch souvenirs. Belle won't fight them. She won't stand guard over his precious things any more.

When, in the morning, she catches Hopper out walking Pongo in the park, she asks about the library. "Oh, yes, of course," he says. "In all the, ah, activity of late, we. . .yes, there's money in the budget to operate the library. I'll call HR this morning about reinstating you, if you're ready." He allows a question to float at the end of the sentence. When she answers affirmatively, he touches her shoulder. "That's good, Belle. I'm happy for you. To have work of your own, and to make a difference in the community, you're going to feel better."

He pauses, wondering if he should tell her about the swing. It's too soon, he decides; he sent out his Citizen of the Month inquiry just yesterday. If it should prove some handyperson fixed the unraveled rope, Belle's hopes would be dashed to the rocks. There's nothing more damaging than false hope.

Months pass and the library has its Grand Opening. Belle is seen everywhere now: in City Hall, advocating for an increase in the library's budget; on _Good_ _Morning_, _Storybrooke_, promoting literacy; in the shops, spending her hard-earned salary like everyone else. The children drop the "on the Hill" portion of her nickname. A few women make overtures of friendship, but she's much too busy with the library just yet.

A few men make overtures of another kind. Whale is the first and the most insistent; he even follows her into Clark's, promising "a good time."

She wheels upon him, openly making a scene. "Is it me that you want? Or it Gold's girl that you're after?"

His face reddens, but not nearly so much as it does when a metal hook digs into his shoulder and a voice as snakelike as Gold's hisses into his ear, "The lady said no, mate. Now make like an egg and beat it."

Over Clark's protests (for Whale has picked up a box of Tic Tacs), the doctor stumbles out of the store without payment or apology.

"Thank you," Belle says stiffly. It's odd seeing the pirate in jeans and sneakers, very odd indeed. But she gives him only the briefest of glances and he bows and walks away.

* * *

Belle announces a library holiday on December 14. The City Council questions her: after all, the library was closed a week at Thanksgiving and will close for two weeks for Christmas and New Year's. "I'm taking a personal day. My benefits allow for that, don't they" is all the explanation she gives.

Then Archie remembers that December 14 marks the anniversary of the triumphant return of Henry's Heroes, and he calls for a municipal holiday; other voices chime in and soon it becomes a big deal, with a parade, though Emma flat-out refuses to be planted onto the crepe-papered float like some candy-assed Homecoming Queen, and no one remembers to extend Guest of Honor invitations to Regina and Hook, so it's just an embarrassed Snow, Henry and David, walking along behind the marching band and waving hesitantly as people cheer and throw hothouse roses at them. "It's good," Archie keeps reassuring the Charmings. "The town's been through so much; we need to celebrate our survival as a community."

When the parade is over, Archie sneaks away under the guise of walking Pongo, and he climbs the stairs to the apartment above the library, for he remembers that today is an anniversary of another sort. "You didn't come to the parade," he remarks when Belle, who's dressed in her bathrobe, opens the door.

"I didn't realize attendance was manditory," she says. He smells alcohol on her breath. She doesn't invite him in.

"No, of course not," he answers hastily. "I was just worried, that's all. You. . .seem depressed."

"Are you satisfied with the job I'm doing, Mr. Mayor?" she snaps.

"Yes, sure," he stutters.

"Then let's leave it at that. Even a city employee has a right to a personal life."

"No, I'm here as–." She closes the door before he can finish: "a friend."

He stares at the brass knocker. Perhaps it's just a momentary set-back: grief sometimes steals up on the bereaved years after everyone assumes recovery has been achieved. Or maybe she's just been suffering in silence; she's brought herself out into the community, but she hasn't really joined it. He wonders again if he should tell her about the swing and the good samaritan who never came forward. . .who might not exist.

No, he decides, that would only push her deeper into depression. He will ask Ruby to check in on Belle: the irrepressible Ruby, who had no part in the verdict against Rumplestiltskin and will stir no unpleasant memories.

* * *

Belle has two secrets: for the past year, she's had bouts of insomnia, broken only by a recurring nightmare; and sometimes she drinks to put herself to sleep.

* * *

"She won't return my calls or let me in when I go to her apartment," Ruby reports to Archie. "But I'll ask Ariel to talk to her."

* * *

One morning she's in a rush to open the library (another sleepless night) and instead of thoughtfully selecting a picture book for story time, she grabs the first thing. With ten preschoolers gathered round her rocking chair, she's stuck: they clamor when they learn from the cover that she's holding a book of fairy tales. She never reads fairy tales. The children won't allow her to switch to Pete the Cat.

With a lump in her throat, she reads them the tale she has the least personal knowledge of. When story time concludes, though, she has to run into the ladies' room and lock the door.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Ariel says, hands on her hips. She's intentionally come unannounced to Belle's apartment; it's ten o'clock at night and she's being rude, but she doesn't care. What she cares about are the dark circles under Belle's eyes, the empty wine bottles in the recycling bin. In her short time among humans, Ariel has learned about the many ways they attempt to bury their feelings. Even Eric has a tendency to avoid confronting unpleasant emotions: he submerges himself in televised basketball games.

"I came here," Ariel continues, "to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but. . . ." She gestures to the overflowing recycling bin.

"Leave me alone."

"Being left alone isn't working for you," Ariel points out. She sits down beside Belle on the couch, though she wasn't invited. "I know the signs. You need your True Love."

Belle shakes her head. "Even if I could be with him, I wouldn't. He's not the man I thought he was."

"I don't know him," Ariel admits. "But I think I know you well enough to say you have an instinct for, I don't know what to call it. Seeing people's hearts, I guess. And you wouldn't have chosen a man who's irredeemable, and you wouldn't be doing this to yourself if you didn't feel guilty for abandoning him."

"He admitted it," Belle interjects. "He confessed that he had tried to kill Henry."

"I can't defend that," Ariel admits. "I don't know what's in his heart. But you do."

"Not any more. Maybe I was just fooling myself all along."

"True Love doesn't betray us," Ariel counsels. "We betray it. That's what you're doing here. Do the right thing, Belle." She stands, fishing in her purse. She retrieves a small box and sets it on the coffee table. "I don't need this, but you do."

Ariel leaves without a goodbye.

Belle pours herself a glass of red wine and fingers the box, but she doesn't open it.

* * *

"You miss him a lot, don't you?"

Henry has snuck up behind her as she's shelving DVDs. Startled, she jerks upright and he apologizes. "I just. . .Ruby's been talking to my mom, and I hear them sometimes when they think I'm asleep. They think you're getting sadder. I think they're right."

"Henry," she begins to chastize him.

"I know you're going to say it's none of my business and I'm just a kid and all that, but it is kinda my business. I heard them talking and I know why they left Mr.–my grandpa behind. They wouldn't tell me when I asked but I heard." The words spill out of Henry like blood from a wound, and Belle realizes he must be hurting too. It must hurt a hell of a lot to know your grandpa wants you dead.

But Henry surprises her. "I think they're wrong." He adds more decisively, "I know they're wrong. He loves me; I know it. He came to save me. He fought his own father for me."

Belle can't bring herself to argue. The boy needs his illusion; the truth is too damn hard.  
Henry grabs her hand to emphasize the earnestness of his urging. "He's got to be lonely. Everybody's gone but the pixies, and you know how he feels about them. He must think we hate him. I bet he's as sad as you are, and scared. If I talk to my other mom, if she says there's a way to make a portal, would you go see him and tell him I know he didn't do it?"

"Oh, Henry, no. . ."

"You got to." He squeezes her hand. "He's your True Love. You have to be together. And tell him I know he loves me, and I miss him."

He walks away before she can argue.

* * *

That night she pours herself a glass of wine but leaves it on the kitchen counter. The box on her coffee table attracts her attention. It's been a month since Ariel brought it; Belle's natural curiosity would have driven her to open it instantly but surprises require optimism to face, and that feeling has been in short supply. But she keeps staring at the box and remembering Ariel's frustration–Ariel's disappointment in her–and Henry's blind insistence in Rumple's innocence.

A thought stabs at her. She used to think she was a faithful servant to Love, but Henry has shown far more dedication than she has. She's disappointed in herself too.

"You know the truth," she says aloud. "You always have."

She rushes to the coffee table and opens the box.

* * *

In the morning she catches Henry as he's walking to school. "I'll deliver your message," she promises.

"You're going to see him?" Henry nearly shouts. "How? I asked my mom but she said she can't make a portal."

She shows him her wrist and she smiles.

* * *

"Teach me the route," she says as soon as Ariel opens to her knock. "I'm sorry I won't be here for your wedding. How do I get to Neverland?"

* * *

"Ms. French!" Archie raises his head from his mountain of paperwork.

"I'm sorry to drop in without an appointment but I had to bring you this." She lays an envelope on top of the "in" basket.

"You look rested," he says. "Relaxed. Did something change?"

She nods. "My mind. I'm sorry to run out on you. Thank you for trusting me."

"What do you mean?"

She gestures to the envelope. "My resignation." Her eyes sparkle as she leans forward, her hands splayed on his desk. "I'm leaving for Neverland."

He starts to ask if she's sure, but deep down, he knows she's doing the right thing. "Can you wait a couple of days? To give me time to call a town meeting, possibly to correct an error."

"I've waited too long as it is."

"But it may be we were wrong to banish him." Archie types some hasty commands into his laptop.

"Yes, they were," she corrects his pronoun, absolving him of guilt. "But it's too late. I just hope I'm not too late."

"At least," Archie begs, snatching a fresh page from his printer, "show him this."

She doesn't catch on at first as she studies the photo. "I had a maintenance guy go out to fix the swing at Riverview Park. He took this photo. Belle, nobody tampered with the swing. Nobody."

Belle grins and folds the paper carefully, tucking it into her tote bag. "I'll give it to him." She kisses Archie's cheek. "Goodbye, Archie."

"And tell him I'm sorry. Good luck, Belle."

* * *

Ariel joins her on the dock, offering last-minute advice about jelly fish and whirlpools. "And don't forget to breathe! It's too long a trip not to. The magic will make it possible."

"Thanks, Ariel. And best of luck with your wedding." Belle walks into the ocean, pressing the release on the bracelet. A cloud of purple magic engulfs her legs, causing them to tingle and obscuring them from view; when the cloud blows away, she has a tail. "It's pretty," she laughs. "Shiny."

"Be careful, Belle. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too." Belle lowers herself into the water and splashes her tail experimentally. "Hey, guess what? I never swam before!" And she laughs as she dives into an outgoing wave.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Archie can't concentrate on his paperwork. His mind keeps straying to the young woman who, bold as brass, waltzed into his office and announced her intention to cross realms to reunite with her lover; his eyes keep straying to the open photo file on his laptop.

It's too late to make things right. He should've trusted his gut instead of waiting for incontrovertable evidence, but then, he hadn't wanted to second-guess the moral leaders of this community, the true queen and her consort who had given so much of themselves for others, who had always guided the people justly, mercifully.

They weren't wrong in exiling Rumplestiltskin. Even if they were wrong in this one instance, he'd committed so many crimes an expulsion was appropriate. Archie takes comfort in that: he can uncover the truth without casting aspersions against Snow and David.

And without embarrassing them. He makes private phone calls to invite each of Henry's Heroes to his apartment for after-dinner coffee. His living room is barely big enough to seat seven people, but he borrows folding chairs from a neighbor and makes everything fit. On the coffee table Archie has laid a manila envelope. When they are seated and the coffee has been served and a plate of Fig Newtons passed around, David gets right to the point. "I take it this is a meeting rather than a social thing. What's up, Archie?"

"I thought it would be best if we. . .clarified something. For our own peace of mind." The mayor stirs his coffee to buy time to collect his thoughts.

"Does this have anything to do with Belle's resignation?" A half-smile graces Regina's lips.

"You know about that?" Archie cocks an eyebrow. "I haven't told anyone."

"Of course I know about it," Regina snaps. "I may not be mayor any longer, but nothing happens in this town that I don't know about, and that will never change."

"What happened, Archie?" Snow asks.

"Well, it's as Regina said: Belle resigned her position this morning."

"Abruptly. Didn't even give two weeks' notice," Regina gripes.

"And she left town." Archie catches the look of surprise on Regina's face; he's finally managed to one-up her. "She's gone to Neverland, in fact."

"Neverland?" Hook bursts. "You must be joking."

"It's not possible," Snow adds.

"No beans, no hat, we don't even have Pan's shadow any more," Regina ennumerates. "Is this why Henry was asking about portals?"

"She found a way." Archie doesn't know what that way was; if he did, he wouldn't reveal it, least it might provide an opportunity for Regina to do some harm. "She won't be coming back."

"She's gone to be with him," Snow says in wonderment.

"Crossed realms for him," Hook mutters. "What is it about that damned crocodile?"

"'That damned crocodile' crossed realm after realm, decade after decade, to find me," Bae snaps. "You don't have the right to talk about him, Hook."

"Hey, mate, you were just as adamant as anyone else about leaving him behind."

"I had to do that, for my son. But he was a good man once, until he became cursed."

"Oh, don't go making excuses for him. I didn't get off easy, so why should he?" Regina demands. When Emma starts to object, Regina barks, "_What_? I was evicted from my position and replaced by a cricket."

"Rumplestiltskin is cursed. Curses can make people do things they never would otherwise," Snow blurts.

"And yet a man still has to be responsible for his actions. Whatever. . . force. . . put the idea into his head, he chose to listen to it. He has to pay the penalty," David judges.

"This wasn't about penalties," Bae objects. "It was about Henry's safety. Else we would have left Regina and Hook behind too."

Voices rise and fists start to clench, and Emma stands, folding her arms, reminding everyone she's the Law and will play no favorites in keeping the peace. "Shut up!" she yells.

The room falls silent. Archie can now hear his grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. "Thank you, Emma. I didn't ask you all here to get you upset. What's done is done, and there was plenty of cause for it."

"And no way to undo it," Regina reminds them with a smirk.

"But I think, before we can move forward, we need to consider the truth." Archie picks up the manila envelope and extracts its contents: seven copies of the photo he gave Belle this morning.

Regina sniffs. "If this is what you consider art, Dr. Hopper, you really need to get out more."

"What's this, then?" Hook asks.

But Bae recognizes the park in the photo: he's taken Henry here several times. He frowns, trying to sort it all out. "Is this the swing my father messed with?"

"Look again, Baelfire," Archie suggests. "I sent a maintenance guy out to fix the swing, in March of last year. He took this photo."

"It wasn't part of a 'before' and 'after' set, was it?" Emma asks skeptically.

"No. Just a 'before.'"

"There's nothing wrong with that rope," Snow remarks. Blanching, she looks at Emma.  
Now the others catch on. David points out, "Yeah, but you said March. That was, what, three months or more after Henry was kidnapped–"

"And Gold tried to kill Henry on the day of the kidnapping."

"The day the world went to hell in a handcart," Regina says.

"So what's this prove?" David says. "Someone beat your maintenance guy to the punch, that's all."

"Hey, didn't you run an ad in the paper," Emma tries to remember. "Something about 'the good samaritan who fixed the Riverview Park swing'? I thought it was a weird request at the time."

"I did," Archie admits. "No one came forward."

"This proves nothing," Regina complains. "So your volunteer repairman doesn't read the newspaper."

"Most people don't," Emma grunts. "It's only good for cat litter."

"I realize that, Regina," Archie replies. "That's why I didn't say anything until now. But I just thought I should bring it to your attention. In case."

"In case what?" Emma's mouth draws tight. "We were wrong?"

Snow nods slowly. "In case we were wrong."

"But he told me," Bae mumbles. "He told me himself he's tried to kill Henry, and he told me how. Why would he. . .lie about that?"

"He wouldn't," Emma answers. "Look, I didn't know him as long as the rest of you, but the times I talked to him, he never set my bullshit detector off. Oh, he sinned plenty by omission, and he'd leave you thinking you heard him say something he didn't, but he never outright lied." She points to the photo. "And sure as hell he wouldn't have lied about that. I mean, he knew we'd have to do something to stop him."

David is sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. He's remembering the saddest thing he ever saw Gold do, and it makes him squirm. "The look on his face when he kissed Belle goodbye, just before we took off for Neverland. The way he talked to her, like it was breaking his heart to leave. He said he had to do this for Baelfire. Honoring his memory. He was talking like it was the last thing he'd ever say to her. A man doesn't lie when it's his last words to his love, does he?"

"Not when it's about the son he searched for for three hundred years," Bae lowers his head too, then raises it again to search Emma's face for understanding. "I never doubted he loved me, just. . . the things he did. . . he killed people, innocent people. . . ."

"You had cause, Neal." Archie offers support. "You had plenty of cause to despise what he did. I knew him quite well in the old country, and it's just as you say. But yet. . . ." Archie shrugs.

"Yet he could show kindness to a heartbroken princess," Snow provides. "And help a prince find her just in time to save her from a sleeping curse." She too is remembering the saddest thing she ever saw Gold do: in her mind's eye she sees Gold crumbling before her as she and David delivers the news of Bae's death. She hears her own voice pleading for Gold's help in saving Storybrooke: "We'll die; you'll die." Then she hears his hushed rejection: "I've made my peace with that," he had said. In that moment, he had been willing to die; it's not a stretch to think his declaration that he was willing to sacrifice his life for Henry's was sincere.

Then she remembers this was apparently just moments after his attempt upon Henry, and she doesn't feel quite so sorry for Gold.

"Oh come on," Regina groans. "Next thing you'll be forming a 'Greg and Tamara Memorial Fan Club.' Get real. He killed, he cheated, he lied. All the misery you think you've suffered these thirty years–yes, I cast the curse, but he created it. Let's give credit where credit is due, shall we?"

"Regina's right," Hook says. "He's where he deserves to be. He killed his own wife. Even if he didn't succeed, he admitted he would have killed his own grandson. What the hell kind of man is that?"

"I'm not saying a mistake was made," Archie says. "Morally, exiling him was the right thing to do, even if it was for the wrong reason."

"No," Emma interrupts. "Not according to the law. If you jail a guy and then find out he didn't do what you convicted him for, you don't have the right to keep him jailed for other crimes he didn't get a trial for."

"There's a difference, honey, between the law and justice," Snow points out.

"Think about the public welfare. That's what a leader has to do: take care of the people," David says.

"You were not wrong," Archie emphasizes. "You did what you thought was best. You had an impossible task: how to contain an immortal sorcerer."

"We don't even know for sure that he didn't damage that swing," David says. "He told us he did."

"I just thought you needed to hear this information," Archie concludes.

"So we can do what? Throw a pity party?"

Snow growls, "Shut up, Regina."

* * *

Every muscle aches as Belle drags herself to shore, but it's a good ache and she still has energy enough to shout his name repeatedly.

In a cloud of magic he appears before her, stunned at first, and then skeptical. "Dreaming," he mutters, "shouldn't've eaten those green bananas. Or am I going crazy already–or at last?"

She laughs her tinkling laugh, her laugh that signals him that all is well. "I'm not a dream, Rumple! Here, come here and let me kiss you, and then you'll know how real I am." She starts forward but falls over. He rushes to her side to lift her and she laughs again, running her hands down her scaly hips. "I forgot I had this." She releases the bracelet's magic and her tail is replaced by her legs. "Oops," she blushes, for from the waist down she's clad only in her panties. "Must have been the price of the magic. Would you mind?"

He seems to decide that if he's dreaming or hallucinating, he wants to continue the fantasy: he openly admires her exposed legs until she chastizes him: "Rumple. . . ."

"Yes, of course, sweetheart. A skirt or slacks?" His hands glow with magic.

"Jeans, since I imagine we'll have some jungle to tramp through."

His pout reshapes into a sly grin until she chastizes him again, "And no skinny jeans, either."

"You know, I can just transport us with magic. That way you could wear whatever you want. That little tartan skirt, perhaps?"

"Jeans, please, and boots. Later we'll play with dress up. Me in the tartan skirt, if you like, and you. . . you I'd like to see in a tuxedo. But first my jeans and your whiskers." She strokes her chin, then points to his.

"As you wish, my love." He takes the hint, getting rid of his beard with a little magic. Then he provides her with the requested attire and a pair of sturdy boots. Once she's properly dressed, she throws herself into his arms and rewards him with the promised kiss. As soon as he touches her, she knows she was right to come here, and he knows it too. He feels the heat of her body, the odd little bump she has on the back of her head, hidden beneath her hair. He breathes in her scent. "It really is you."

"And it's really you." She kisses him again before pulling away to inspect him. "Oh, Rumple." She's so disappointed and he gives her his humbled-bad-boy look. "You haven't been sleeping, have you? Or eating. You broke your promise."

"No, no, I've been eating. It's just that without ketchup, things aren't as appetizing." He's trying to charm her out of worrying, but she knows his tricks and resists. "But I'll try harder. Belle, I can see how you got here, but why? Whatever possessed you to come to this godsforaken place?"

"Do you have to ask?" Before he can object, she breaks in. "Don't get all pissy and try to send me back. If this is where you must stay, this is where I will stay. The place doesn't matter."

"It's not fair to you that you–"

"Rumplestiltskin."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Shut up and show me your rather large new estate."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A door slams, angry voices shout and Emma's hand automatically moves to her hip, where her gun should be–except she never did resume carrying it (though she did readopt the badge) after returning to Storybrooke. No magic-hunting strangers, no wraiths, no shape-shifting sorceresses, no conjured fireballs, not even a decent bar fight or pimp slapping has disturbed the peace.

Oh, Regina's not joined the nunnery: she still lords it over meeker souls and gets into occasional shouting matches with uppity sales clerks, gardeners with topiary tendencies and pin-poking dressmakers, and once she turned a hairdresser into a skunk when the hapless creature let the curling iron overheat and burn the royal scalp. But overall, she's been pretty well-behaved, occupied as she is with a new career: she's the owner-general manager of MAGE-TV, home of the world's most accurate weather forecasts (slogan: "If Regina says it's gonna rain, you best believe it's gonna rain, dammit"). Her social calendar is quite full as well, with invitations–often competing–from Hook (who makes his living these days as the host of MAGE-TV's music video show, _Extra_ _Heavy_ _Metal_) and bank president Alan A. Dale (who has always personally managed Gold's accounts, a fact that makes him infinitely interesting).

So with all this quietude, Emma's been left to ticketing failed parallel parkers and breaking up a lunch-money theft ring at the elementary school. As she now climbs the inn's stairs, her back pressed cautiously to the wall, she wishes she could remember where she left her buddies Smith and Wesson. On the second-floor landing, however, she relaxes, for the shouts from above continue and she now recognizes the voices as her son's and his father's, coming from the room in which Bae's been living these past two years (Bae always was slow to commit to a place–or a person, Emma thinks). She takes back her breath as she eavesdrops.

"–can fix it! They'd listen to you!"

"Henry, what do I have to do to make you see? We had no choice. We had to do it to protect you. We didn't do it on some whim; I didn't do it to get even with him for abandoning me. We talked about it for hours, all of us–"

"Not him!"

"What?"

"You said 'all of us,' but you didn't ask him what he wanted, did you? You didn't give him a say in it, did you?"

Emma sniggers: Henry can be a word-manipulator when it suits him–just like his grandfather.

Neal huffs. "Why would we do that? You don't ask a prisoner what kind of punishment he wants."

"Yeah, but before the jury decides the verdict, don't they give the defendant a chance to tell his side?"

Neal groans. "Henry. . . buddy. . . ."

"Well, did you?"

"He admitted it. He told me he would've–aw, Henry, look, this isn't something you ought to be worrying about. You're just a–look, it was a hard decision but we had–"

"It was about me! Why didn't you ask me what I thought?"

"Because it was a decision no kid should ever have to make."

"Not even you? You're his kid, aren't you?"

"Henry, I'm two hundred years old."

"Then you should've been able to think of a better way."

Emma ducks into a storage closet just in time to escape the thudding feet running down the stairs. When a second, heavier pair of feet passes her hiding place, she sighs. She's going to need a stiff cup of cocoa before she intervenes in this argument.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin leads his lady by the hand through jungle to the now abandoned camp of the Lost Boys. He inquires about their welfare and is assured all are well: Nibs and Curly are living with Grace's Storybrooke parents; Tootles was adopted by the Woodsman and his wife; Marco welcomed Slightly in as a brother for Pinocchio; and the others are living in the convent while they await pending adoptions.

"If you were there," Belle says, "the paperwork would be going faster."

His mouth tugs upwards. "Thank you, Belle. I was rather skilled with that sort of work." Then he grows quiet, for thinking about the Lost Boys has him thinking about his own boys, the son and grandson whom he'll never see again, and who no doubt have put him out of their minds just as they've put him out of their world. Rumplestiltskin is the lost boy now, again.

Belle wanders the compound, inspecting the place for comforts and utilities. It's sadly lacking in both. "This is where you sleep?" Her voice rises a notch as she indicates a pair of blankets on the dirt floor of a cave. "Not even a pillow? Why didn't you use some magic to make yourself comfortable?"

"I will, now." He waves his hands grandly and the cave vanishes to be replaced by a snug little cottage with plumbing and magic-powered electricity. He fills it with books and music. He escorts her inside and watches in amusement as she explores each room. As she bounces her fanny on the mattress, she exclaims, "Air conditioning! You conjured air conditioning."

He fills two ceramic cups with water from the sink, then places the cups in the microwave oven and sets the dial. He turns to face her and leans against the counter. "With my magic, I can provide air conditioning, clothes, books, almost everything you need to be comfortable." It sounds boastful, but he looks at her sorrowfully. "Except for the one thing you need most: other people."

"Don't think about that," she insists. "We're together. I can be happy."

"Belle, for me, this is forever, but it doesn't have to be for you. You—"

"No," she interrupts, growing angry. "Don't tell me 'go.' Not this time."

"Not 'go,' just don't exile yourself here. You're free; _be _free. Isolated as this island is, it's lonely here, lonely as hell."

"And you had two years of complete isolation," Belle surmises. "I'm so sorry for that, Rumple. I was lonely in Storybrooke, surrounded by people. We don't have to be lonely. You have me now, and I have you."

"You also have the bracelet, and you have Storybrooke's blessing to come and go as you please. What I'm saying, Belle, is spend time here with me, but make your life out in the world. Travel, have adventures, meet people, meet men—"

"No!"

"Meet men, and when you find one that can make you happy—"

"You make me happy."

"Build a home with him. A life. Children."

She slaps her palm on the counter. "We had an agreement! I'm here to stay. The life I want is with you. Yes, I've always assumed someday I'd marry and have children, but what my heart cries out for is not _some_ children; it's _your_ children. If that's not to be, I can accept it. Can you?"

He's silent so long that she nudges him around to look at him. His jaw is working; she knows that means he's struggling with emotions. She rests her head on his shoulder and he pats her hand. "To have you with me is more than I allowed myself to hope for." He clasps her face in his hands. "But Belle, it's far more important to me that you have the life you dream of. I know you love me, and I'm incredibly grateful for it. I promise I'll never take it for granted. But I want you to promise me something."

"What's that?"

"Don't let regrets become resentment. If you ever start to miss the life you had in Storybrooke, or long for a life you could have had elsewhere, use that bracelet. Come back sometimes to see me, if you must, but go out there and live."

"You're the life I want, Rumple."

"Promise me."

In her memory as well as his, her plea of long ago echoes: _Promise me and we can be together_. It's his turn now to plead, hers to wield the power.

"I promise, but I also pray you'll come to see that my happiness is with you. We _will_ be fine." She strokes his back. "We'll be fine."

* * *

Henry shouts from across the street, stopping Ariel from entering Modern Fashions. "Hello," she says as he runs across the street to her side. "You're Emma's son, aren't you? I don't think we've met."

"Yeah, I'm Henry. I know you're busy but can I ask you something?" She's loaded down with packages.

"My trousseau. I have a fitting for my wedding dress." She nods at the entrance to the dress shop.

"Just one question. You were the last one to see Belle before she left town, right?" He licks his lips nervously.

"Yes. I was with her when she left."

"How? I mean, we know she went to Neverland, but how did she get there?"

Ariel blinks as though the answer should be obvious. "By sea."

Henry scrunches up his nose. "Do you mean a ship?"

"No. Swimming. I gave her a magic bracelet that can turn a tail into legs and back again. She became a mermaid, temporarily, and swam to Neverland."

"A mermaid."

She nods.

"A magic bracelet."

She nods again.

He sighs deeply. "I don't know if I'm ready to turn into a mermaid."

"Merman," she corrects. "But what are you talking about?"

"Sorry. Thanks." He shakes his head slowly. "I got to see my mom about a bracelet."

* * *

He awakens with his True Love in his arms–and a sense of impending doom.

It's not a vision, just the same vague dread he's had ever since his first visit to this island, the visit that left him fatherless. Nothing good can come from Neverland, the grim eight-year-old warns the adult Rumplestiltskin, and the adult Rumple warns the Dark One that nothing gold can stay, not for the likes of him.

Belle stirs and he slides his arms, now prickly from the lack of circulation, away, freeing her. Distancing himself. Being so close to him isn't good for her. Loving him isn't good for her. And tomorrow or the next day, when Fate yanks her away, he'll pay dearly for this morning.

She rolls over, still asleep, her lips parted; her hand slides across his hip and her head seeks out the hollow of his shoulder, which makes a most comfortable pillow. He watches her and worries: the longer he allows her to cling to him, the higher the price they'll have to pay.

And after last night, that price might be unbearable.

"I believe in us," she had got him to say; but he doesn't believe in himself. It's true, what Malcolm said just before Rumple killed him: "You're still just a little boy whimpering for his papa."

With a speck of magic, he untangles himself from Belle, leaving a pillow in his place. He stands over her a moment, brushing away the lock of hair caught in her mouth, before he dresses (he conjures the leather pants, brown silk shirt and red vest she admired so much in the Dark Castle days). Then he wanders into the kitchen to start breakfast.

* * *

Regina's favorite guy has come to call, so she welcomes him into her kitchen and lavishes him with milk and cookies, and while he eats, she cancels her date. "I'll be spending the night in."

"Do I have yet another rival for your affections, my queen?"

"No one is a rival to him, Hook: he's peerless."

He chuckles warmly. "I see. Say hello to Henry for me."

Henry's learned the ropes by now. He dons the puppy dog eyes, though it feels a little silly, and warms her up by showing her his report card. As she's admiring it, he rinses his dishes and puts them in the dishwasher (a task he normally remembers to do only on Mother's Day). She glances up in surprise: "Thank you, Henry."

Step Two is the really brilliant one. "Mom, is magic like a muscle: use it or lose it?"

Regina's sucked in: Henry's finally showing an interest in her profession. "No, it's more like riding a bicycle. You can get rusty, but you never lose it." Unless someone stabs you with a dagger.

"Yeah, but if you don't use it, you won't get better at it, right?"

"Yes, that's true. A born mage can have all the power in the world, but if she doesn't study and practice, that power won't grow." A little dig at Emma.

"Well, you haven't practiced much since we got home, have you?"

She pulls in her chin, a sign she's insulted. "Of course I have. I do some magic every day. I'll never let my skills get rusty." Then a new thought occurs to her and she slides a comforting arm around his shoulders. "Oh, Henry, are you afraid I won't be able to protect you if more strangers come?"

"No, I was thinking about, like, the fancier stuff. Like that bracelet you made for Ariel. That must've been really complicated, a bracelet that can–what's the word?"

"Transmute. It changes one thing into another. It's hard, yes, and even harder when a living thing is involved, and hardest of all when that living thing is sentient."

"But you did it. I bet it didn't take much time either."

"Not much, but it did take a lot of power. To be honest, I felt drained for a couple of hours after I made the cuff."

The trap now laid in a way that would've made Grandpa Gold proud, Henry's ready to spring it. "But you could do it again. Couldn't you?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**A/N. Thank you for the reviews, everybody! As you may have noticed, I am inspired and influenced by them. I did go back to earlier chapters to add some lines, to try to make it clearer that although the group had differing reasons for the expulsion, the one they all agreed upon, and the deciding factor, was Henry's protection. That's why Regina wasn't exiled. But perhaps Emma's role as savior isn't over yet.**

* * *

"Good morning. Coffee?"

Hook sets a cup before her as Regina nods dully and drops into her chair at the head of the dining table. He's already doctored the coffee for her; he knows just how she likes it. He lifts the silver cover from the china plate he has waiting at her seat: this morning he's prepared kippers, eggs benedict and fruit cocktail.

"I can't eat all this," she complains, as she always does, but she unfolds her napkin and spreads it across her lap.

He sits down at her right. His place is empty; he's already eaten and tidied up. After two years of soft living, he's still an early riser and a bit of a neat freak, a leftover from a lifetime of living in cramped quarters. Regina is neither of those things, but she's still clever and stylish and lovely, a passionate and imaginative lover, and dark as night, so he gravitates toward her. It's not love; it's an alliance of body and mind. Besides, her house is so much more spacious than his apartment above the Rabbit Hole.

Sometimes he thinks he can see a future with her. Other times, he thinks he can't see a future.

She's polished off the kippers and is attacking the eggs benedict with abandon. "I've got a meeting at nine," she says.

He nods. He's not due in to work until ten, but he'll drive in to the studio with her. "Did you have a good time last night?"

She winks at him. "And again this morning."

"You didn't sleep well," he criticizes. "You thrashed about like an ogre was at your throat."

"Dreaming."

"A nightmare, I take it."

"No, in fact, the opposite. It excited me."

He grins. "Dreaming of me, love?"

She starts to sniff, then changes her mind. "As a matter of fact, you were in it. We sailed back to Neverland and found the Dark One's dagger."

He leans forward on his elbows. "And then what?"

"And then," she waves her fork, "I was the most powerful being the world has ever known."

"Regina," he sighs, "look at all you have here. Will you never be satisfied?"

* * *

Back in the old days, in the Dark Castle, after she stopped fearing him, Belle would make up excuses to touch her employer–briefly and innocently, because she was a maiden and he was the master of the castle–but touch him nontheless, in silent, subconscious encouragement to trust her and to open up. After three hundred years alone, human touch was foreign and disturbing to him for a very long time, but gradually he stopped flinching.

Now it's Rumple's turn. He need not be sneaky about it; she welcomes the small, everyday touches–the brush of his hand against hers as he gives her something, the resting of his hand on her back as they walk–as readily as she does the intimate ones they share at night. But he finds excuses just the same, to reassure himself without admitting it, she suspects, that she's really here. That he hasn't lost her.

She's come to understand this about him: he doesn't trust words, especially his own, so this is how he talks when the topic is most difficult: through his hands. And if no one is listening, his hands communicate through the spinning wheel.

She worries when she notices he hasn't built a spinning wheel in Neverland. The absence of a wheel informs her just how isolated he's been, that he stopped communicating even with the wheel.

* * *

"Mr. Cassidy?"

Bae stops pounding the base of the ketchup bottle long enough to glance at the man standing over his booth. "Yeah, that's me."

The man's in a business suit—tailored, but not of the same class as the ones Bae's father used to wear (Bae wonders briefly what his father does wear these days: it's not as though there's a Men's Wearhouse on the island). His hair is shoulder-length, like Rumple's. He presents Bae with a business card, but Bae tries to wave it away. "Thanks, but I'm not in the market for real estate or life insurance or funeral plans."

The man chuckles. "None of the above, Mr. Cassidy. I'm a banker. Before you think I'm trying to sell you a personal investment plan, let me tell you, I manage your father's accounts."

"Oh." Bae sets the ketchup bottle down. He casts a longing look at his scrambled eggs: oh well, Granny won't object to reheating them. "You want to sit down, Mr. . . ?"

"Dale. Thanks, but I've got a board meeting in fifteen; I just popped in for a bagel." He shows Bae the sack he's carrying. "But I would like to meet with you sometime this week. The bank needs to know what you'd like us to do with those accounts. And then there's the properties your father rents—rented—out; with him gone, the tenants don't know where to make their payments. You see, he always collected the rent himself. Kept meticulous records, accurate to the penny. He seems—seemed—to take great pride in his recordkeeping. Anyway, so we ought to talk about his extensive holdings; they're all yours now."

"What?" Bae chokes.

"Oh." Dale raises an eyebrow. "He didn't tell you. I suppose there wasn't time. So much happening all at once. Anyway, all of his accounts and his property have three co-owners listed: him, of course, Ms. French, and you. Ms. French came to see me before she left, to inform me that she wouldn't be coming back. She signed everything over to you." Dale opens his briefcase and extracts a white envelope. "She left this for you."

"All mine." Bae says, his voice bitter. He accepts the envelope.

"All one-point-two-five billion dollars' worth." Dale lays his business card beside Bae's coffee cup. "To do with as you like."

"No foolin'?"

"No foolin'. You can leave it alone, let it grow as it has been: I can hire people to manage the rental properties and run the pawnshop for you; I can manage the accounts. Or you can liquidate any or all of it. Of course, since no one in the outside world can get into Storybrooke, and no one here has that kind of money. . . ."

Bae grins slyly. "Or I could give it all away to charity, in my father's name."

Dale looks shocked. "That would have him rolling over in his—oh. Sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yeah, well, I guess for all financial purposes, and pretty much everything else, he is in his grave, isn't he?" Bae stabs his fork at his eggs.

Dale clears his throat. "Again, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to suggest that at all. But give me a call when you're ready to go over the specifics. We really do need you to make some decisions soon; it's too much money to ignore. Have a good day, Mr. Cassidy."

Ruby comes by with the coffee pot as Dale leaves. "So what did Alan want?"

"You know him, then?"

"Sure. Small town."

"Seems I've inherited my dad's money." Bae mumbles into his coffee cup, "Baby, you're a rich man."

"Oh." Ruby purses her lips. "I'm sorry." She walks off with his plate before he can ask what she means. As he waits for his eggs, he slides his bread knife into the envelope and tears the seam.

The handwriting in the letter is elegant; the spelling, archaic. "Dear Baelfire." Belle was the only one in Storybrooke who refused to call him Neal. Even his father had made an effort to remember the new name. "I have no explanation for what your father did, or didn't do, the day this town was attacked. I've tried and tried to make sense of it, but I can't. But I pray that you will understand that in this land and our old one, no one and nothing means more to your father than you, and I'm sure he would have felt the same about Henry. I believe he feels that way about me too.

"Everyone—and I'm afraid you, too—thinks he cared only about power. The truth of it is that, in the old land, he saw magic as the only way to protect you, and that's why he pursued it and clung to it, and in this land, he thought only magic would enable him to find you again. That doesn't justify the horrible things he did, but please remember it whenever you feel anger against him, or shame for being his son, rising up in you.

"What he told you he tried to do to Henry is so horrendous and shocking that I understand why you and the others thought he had to be banished. You will probably think I'm crazy—you won't be the first to say that—but I've seen the love that's in his heart and I don't believe he could have hurt Henry. I don't believe it. I understand, however, how you do. Perhaps none of us, not even your father, will never know the truth.

"I'm not going to ask you if you can forgive him. You'll ask yourself that question over and over for the rest of your life, I'm sure, and maybe every time, the answer will be different. But I will ask you to remember that he loved you from the first moment of your existence, and that love never wavered.

"I wish I could have gotten to know you, Baelfire. I hope you find love and happiness.

Belle."

Bae folds the letter and slides it into his jacket. He decides that after breakfast he'll visit the sheriff's office, ask Emma out for tonight. She's always able to make him laugh and he needs that right now. Probably, she could use it, too.

* * *

Belle's voice is thick and scratchy as she strolls into the kitchen, bids him good morning and pours herself a cup.

He's at the stove, setting a skillet on the flames to heat. "Seagull eggs and boar bacon for breakfast. Acquired tastes, but–" he conjures a bottle of ketchup, making her laugh.

She draws the lace curtain aside and looks out onto the day, then frowns. "What time is it?"

"Not a relatable question here, sweetheart. For each forward motion of the clock, there's a backward motion." He comes up behind her to encircle her waist. "But if you're wondering how long you slept, yes, a long time."

"And well." She turns in his arms and slides her hands up his chest to his unevenly cut hair. "I didn't wake once." She doesn't mention her recurring nightmare: no need; it's gone now. She examines him. "And you?"

He nods. "Well."

The hatchet job he's done at the nape of his neck reminds her how long he's been alone, and she feels so sorry for him. "I'll cut your hair for you today."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Rumple, the haircut, the food, your clothes, sleeping on the ground—why have you been living so rough? Why didn't you use your magic to make yourself comfortable?"

He turns his back to her, presumably to drop bacon into the skillet, but she suspects it's also to hide his face from her. His shoulders rise and fall once in a shrug. "I avoided using magic, until yesterday. I thought if I. . . separated from it, I might. . . find myself again."

She asks gently, "Did it help?"

"I'm not sure." He leans on the counter a moment, as though suddenly tired, then resumes his cooking. "I think a person defines himself in context."

"In context," she echoes. "You mean, with other people."

Belle now feels a little guilty for having urged him to break his sobriety from magic. She runs her fingertip along the rim of her coffee cup as she looks around the lovely cottage: it and everything in it, including the coffee she's drinking and the robe she's wearing, he produced with magic, for her sake. In Storybrooke, she knows from her conversations with Leroy that even a little backsliding can be a dangerous thing for an addict—and she's wondered at times if her beloved suffers from this affliction. "Rumple, would you prefer to continue to refrain from using magic? Do you feel better, healthier, without it?"

He considers the question as he forks up the bacon from the skillet. After a long silence, he answers, "Truthfully, no. Without magic, everything moves slower. Colors fade. Sounds lose their edges. Textures roughen. And I feel older, much older." He leans on his hands for a moment before looking over his shoulder at her. "It isn't the magic that's the problem, Belle. It's how I respond to other people. I was at my worst when I felt threatened. I've had no threats here, other than a few pesky mosquitoes, so the monster has remained dormant. I haven't fooled myself into thinking it's gone."

He suddenly smiles and plucks an egg from a basket. "One egg?" He balances it on the tip of his index finger and makes it spin, like a basketball player spinning a basketball, then conjures a second egg and spins it on the index finger of his other hand. "Or two, my dear?"

Later, they will talk more of his absention from magic, but he's cluing her in that he needs warmth and humor right now, so she permits him to lighten the mood. She rewards him with a giggle. "One until I've acquired the taste." She sashes her robe as she watches him toss the eggs up, catch them in mid-air, then crack them simultaneously on the rim of the skillet.

"Bravo!" she applauds. "I suppose I should offer to help, but I feel so lazy." She stretches her arms and yawns.

"Be as lazy as you like. We have no schedule—couldn't if we wanted to." He whisks the eggs in a bowl, then pours them into the skillet. He shows her what he scavenged from the jungle this morning. "Wild onions. They're strong, so I'll go easy on them. I've gotten used to them."

His comment reminds her how long he's been here. "Almost two years," she remarks; she doesn't have to explain what she means. "What do you miss most, Rumple? Besides people."

A stiffening of his back warns her to steer clear of mention of the people. He's quiet a while, busy chopping onion. "My shop, I suppose. But not so much the things in it." He gives her a small smile over his shoulder. "You'll be happy to hear I found my affection for things has dimmed. I miss standing at the counter and looking out into the street in the afternoons, when school let out. The town really came alive then." He pauses. "I miss things that never were. I would've liked for my shop to be the one the kids popped into on their way home, the one with comic books and gumball machines. The one they came to on the last day of summer to buy their school supplies. The one they came to in February to buy their Valentines and those little conversation hearts." He sprinkles the onion onto the eggs.

"You wanted a store like Clark's."

His smile grows rueful. "His was one of the parts I used to fantasize about playing. Minus the allergies. I also wanted to be Prince Charming and dash about on a white horse, to the admiration of men and the sighs of ladies."

She suggests, "Couldn't magic have made you whatever you wanted to be?"

"Magic can do much, but a boar's ear transmuted into a silk purse is still, fundamentally, a boar's ear." He folds the omelettes over. "And you, sweet one? What part would you have liked to have played?"

She shudders. "Not Lacey, that's for sure. I'm still embarrassed when I walk past the Rabbit Hole, wondering what they think of me."

"They know you were cursed." He slides an omelette onto a plate and adds strips of bacon.

Belle accepts the plate and bites into a strip of bacon. "Was she as awful as I remember? She pushed you to do nasty things."

"Nothing that I hadn't done before."

"You forgive her, then."

"Just as you forgive me." There's a note of amazement in the sentence.

"Our love is complicated, but stronger for it." They finish their breakfast and she rises. "I should dress. If you'll conjure me that little tartan skirt? And that black turtleneck, I think."

"I like that turtleneck." Color rises in his cheeks.

She's brought back the temptation of magic, but she's brought back other temptations too, ones that she's sure are good for him. That will be her work here: to be good for him, and to help him to be good for her.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"In the first hour," Rumple confesses, "I thought they–the Charmings–would fail to carry out their threat, as they had Regina's execution. I stood on the shore and watched the ship rise into the air. When I couldn't see it any more, I thought, still, Snow will change her mind. I waited on the shore for six days."

Belle stares at his form through the darkness, but she can't make out his face. That's why he waited until they'd gone to bed to say this, she realizes: so she couldn't see his face. But she can touch him. "Did you think Bae would change his mind?"

The response comes quickly. "No. He's the father."

* * *

"What was your lowest point?"

"In the third month, I took fever. I hadn't had a fever in three hundred years. I was sick for days, too sick to forage for food, too sick to walk to the river for fresh water."

"How did you survive?"

"My magic took over, fed me, healed me. When my thoughts were clear again, I realized I will not die, but my son will, and his son, and his, and I will never see them again. I gave up then."

"How did you get your hope back?"

Rumple looks at Belle from the corner of his eye. "A woman walked out of the sea and asked me for bluejeans."

* * *

"What notions have you been filling his head with?"

Emma can easily imagine cartoon steam curling out of Regina's ears.

"Or is it that junk food you've been feeding him?" the queen guesses. "We had an agreement, Ms. Swan—"

"Oh, stow it, Regina," the sheriff interrupts. "I haven't been filling him with notions or junk food—and before you go blaming the rest of Henry's family, they haven't either. In case you forget, he's a naturally imaginative and sensitive boy with a powerful conscience; that's one of the reasons we love him."

"Ladies, please, this will get us nowhere." Archie was prepared for this: he swallowed a couple of Tylenol before he made the phone calls asking Henry's mothers to this office, following the boy's therapy session. "If you'll both just sit down, take a deep breath, you'll feel much better and we—"

Regina points a manicured fingernail at the sheriff. "She's got Henry so worked up, it's taking a toll on his health. His appetite has taken a nose dive. Last night he barely touched my lasagne, and he hardly slept—"

"That's because he touched your lasagne," Emma sniggers.

"Now, now, his appetite and his sleeping patterns are fine," Archie reports. "And his imagination and sensitivity and conscience are all admirable qualities. In fact, that's what I wanted to talk about, his conscience. As you know, he's learned about the reason behind the decision to exile Rumplestiltskin and he's troubled by it."

"He's an eleven-year-old child." Regina seats herself in Archie's usual chair, leaving the therapist to take the one he prefers for patients while Emma thumps onto the couch in between the chairs. Regina crosses her legs elegantly, a ruler on her throne, ready to pronounce judgment. "Of course he'd be upset: he's disillusioned and frightened. He's just learned that the man who's supposedly his grandfather is a child-killing monster."

"Wait a minute," Emma bursts in. "What's this 'supposedly' crap? Are you insinuating I don't know who Henry's father is?"

"Of course not, Ms. Swan. That's just your imagination–or your conscience."

"Now, Regina," Archie interrupts, "picking a fight with Emma won't resolve Henry's problems. Let's stick to facts, beginning with: Mr. Gold didn't kill any children."

"Because we stepped in just in time."

"Yeah. Well, maybe." Emma busies herself with a hangnail, buying time to think.

"Ms. Swan?" Archie scoots forward. "Are you having second thoughts about the verdict?"

Regina huffs, but Emma shoots her a look that could punch faces. "In the real world—the one where we have laws and courts—we give a guy a chance to make his case before an impartial jury, not a bunch of people who've got grudges against him."

"And where would you expect to have found such a jury on Neverland? Or here, for that matter? There isn't a living soul in Storybrooke that hasn't been burned by that twisted imp, and that includes Pongo."

"Well, Mr. Gold never actually did anything to Pongo—"

Regina sneers at Archie. "Who do you think put Miss Ginger up to calling the sheriff's office to demand Pongo's arrest?"

Archie sinks back in his chair, deflated. "Oh."

"Let me ask you something, Regina." Now Emma crosses her legs. "Didn't you call Gold a liar?"

"I certainly did. It's actually the least of his crimes."

Emma nods. "Uh huh. And who was it who reported that Gold tried to kill Henry?"

Archie supplies the answer. "Gold did."

"What are you getting at, Ms. Swan?"

"So if he's a liar and the only evidence we have that he attacked Henry is his own confession, why did you believe him?"

"You believed him just as much as I did! His own son believed him. And why not? After all that monster has done, killing a child is hardly outside the realm of possibility. Must I remind you, you voted for exile just like everyone else. In fact, as I recall, you cast the third vote. You said yes even before I did."

"Yeah."

"So what are we arguing about? Henry is safe and the entire town sleeps better at night with that freak of nature shut away." Regina pauses. "Or would you have us bring him back, sheriff? Just because we didn't do it according to your procedures? Do you want him tyrannizing this town again?"

"Well, look who's calling—"

"Ladies," Archie waves his hands. "Please. This isn't helping Henry. Can we talk about what will? Please?"

Emma sighs. "I've talked to him, Neal's talked to him, my parents—"

"So have I," Regina adds. "We've explained 'til we're blue in the face. It's just too much for an eleven-year-old to accept, that his own grandfather would try to murder him. That's why I've been bringing him to you, Hopper. To help him accept reality."

"The thing is, I'm not sure that is reality," Archie says quietly.

"You too?" Emma looks hopeful. "So what do we do about it?"

Regina walks out, throwing her hands into the air.

* * *

Belle spends the morning weeding the Lost Boys' garden as Rumple takes on the less appealing task of hunting boar. One day, Belle assures him, she will assist him in such tasks, but for now, she would prefer for the process of acquiring meat to consist of, in her imagination, selecting a plastic-wrapped package from a refrigerated bin and presenting some green paper in exchange for it. In the old land, of course, her father and his entourage often hunted deer, quail and pheasant, but she never accompanied them, nor worked alongside the cooks in preparing the meat for the table; and when she came to work for Rumplestiltskin, the Dark Castle provided whatever she asked for, so she's been spared the specifics of how meat is acquired.

"You needn't apologize, sweetheart," Rumple says. "It's not a pleasant experience."

"I want to share all the work of this life with you," Belle insists. "It'll just. . .take a while for me to adjust."

"We need not work, if we don't want to," he suggests. "Magic will provide."

"Freud said, 'Love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness.' We have plenty of the first; now we need some of the other," Belle says decisively.

"A sense of achievement is a fine reward. Very well, Belle: we'll earn our bread and meat by the sweat of our brow"—he slings his quiver over his shoulder—"and the luck of our aim."

* * *

Bae, looking dashing and debonair by leaning against the door jamb of Emma's office and twirling an orchid in his fingers, prompts: "How about it? You, me, a bottle of wine, a walk in the moonlight tonight?"

Emma raises a skeptical eyebrow. "And no talking about anything serious? I've had it up to here with serious."

"No talking about serious stuff. Maybe no talking at all."

She leans back in her chair and sighs deeply. "Thanks, Bae. Pick me up at seven."

It's only later, as he's proofreading an article about a new truck for the fire department, that he remembers her mistake in his name. She's never spoken his birth name before: strange she would slip like that. Maybe she needs a night out as badly as he does.

* * *

"There might have been a way I could've earned Bae's confidence. He asked me for the dagger."

Belle's face darkens. "So he could control you. How's that trust?"

"No. So he could stop me."

"You would have given it to him, wouldn't you, if you could have?"

"Yes." And then he tells her about the time he thought he had given the dagger to Bae–only to have learned he'd been tricked by Pinocchio.

Belle never met August Wayne Booth, and for his sake, it's just as well. "I wish you had caned ol' Augie, or at least punched him in his lying face," she growls.

"Belle!"

* * *

Bae walks Emma to her door. He won't come in: it's late and he doesn't want to wake the household, considering she still lives with her parents. She wraps her arms around his neck and rewards him with a kiss. "Thanks for giving me a hassle-free night. Dinner was great, the movie was great, the company was. . .pretty great."

"Yeah. I needed a hassle-free night too." He shuffles from foot to foot. "But, uh. . . ."

She releases him and sighs. "Yeah. I know. I'll meet you for breakfast tomorrow and we'll talk about The Thing."

* * *

Belle is unusually quiet throughout dinner. Only in the earliest weeks of their acquaintance was she ever silent during a meal, and that, she revealed to him later, was only because she believed the tales about him and was afraid. He, in those days, was silent as well, but then, for three hundred years, he'd had no one to share his table. As he always has, he gives her her space, though his heart pounds; if she's making a decision about leaving or staying, she must come to it freely.

But about staying or leaving, Belle's mind was made up from the moment she wrote her resignation letter. What's on her mind now is the gift she's brought him from Archie; she has no idea how it will affect Rumple. It may upset the fragile peace of mind he's come to; it may make him crazy with anger at the injustice of his expulsion; or it may free him of guilt.

Drawing in a deep breath, she opens the watertight pouch on her lap. "Rumple, I've brought you a miracle from Storybrooke." She places the photo on his lap.

He says nothing, but the expression on his face is both puzzled and hurt. She's reminding him of his crime, as though he doesn't remind himself of it every day. They will have to talk about what he did, of course they will. But so soon? Couldn't they put it off a few more days?

"Look at the rope," she presses.

He says dully, "They fixed it."

"No. They didn't have to."

"What?"

She sets her hands on his arms and peers into his widened eyes. "It was never broken. You didn't break it, Rumple."

He insists, "But. . . I did. My magic unraveled four strands of that rope. I watched them come apart. I did it."

"The rope was unbroken."

"I. . . ." Rumple shrugs. He suddenly has a headache.

"I talked to Granny, Emma and Snow. None of them remembered noticing any damage to the rope. Of course, it was an awful, awful day; no one could be expected to notice a rope when our entire town was on the verge of destruction." Belle pauses, allowing that thought to sink in for him. "Is it possible, Rumple, that in the overwhelming emotion of that morning, you might have. . .been mistaken about what you saw?"

"No, of course not," he snaps. "I've never hallucinated. I've never imagined things that weren't there. I've always been able to discern the difference between a vision and the unfolding world."

"Is it possible that the magic—I don't know—fooled you?"

His head drops in his hands and he squeezes his eyes shut, calling forth the memory. He remembers very clearly driving up to the park in his Caddy, parking, getting out, his ankle throbbing as he stumbled across the gravel. He remembers surveying the situation, making sure Granny and Henry hadn't noticed him, summoning the magic, channeling it through his cane, watching the first strand snap.

He also very clearly remembers a birthday cake sitting on the counter of his shop, with Bae and the Charmings gathered round, applauding, as Henry blew out the eleven candles. He remembers waving a wand over Henry's head and transmuting him into a life-size ceramic doll and shattering it. . . .He remembers the pounding of his heart forcing him to sit up in his bed, panting, clutching the air.

His head snaps up as Belle suggests, "A lucid dream?"

She sits with him as he struggles to understand, to apply the science of magic to a strange phenomenon. A miracle, Belle called it, overstating it. Finally he sighs, "I don't know what happened."

"Or didn't," she adds hopefully. "Is it possible that the magic could have. . . acted on its own?"

He gets up to clear the table while he ponders the question, and she joins in. She appreciates these small, domestic chores that they do together, that give them a sense of normalcy, that bring them together, and she knows him well enough to tell when silence is the best medicine. So she runs water into the sink and begins to wash their dinner dishes and waits quietly.

At last, he clears his throat nervously. He won't look at her; he's pretending to concentrate on a pan that apparently requires a great deal of muscle to dry. "When I first acquired magic," he begins, "it took quite a while to learn how quickly impulse becomes imagination, and magic is all about imagination. I could wish for a cup of tea, and suddenly there it was, in my hand. Simple things require only the imagining for a powerful mage to make them real, and Belle, in magic, destruction can be a simple thing. To kill something. . . someone. . .can be very easy."

He's opened a very important door now: he needs to go through it, but Belle has doubts as to whether she is the right one to accompany him. She wishes Archie were here; he would know just when to push, where to guide. She also dreads the shattering of the last barrier between them, the wall that he has kept his crimes behind so that she can't see them: she knows of them primarily in only the most general way. He has dreaded this moment, because he's a very old soul who knows how fragile love can be; but he needs this moment, because he's a very old soul who's been alone with his secrets a very long time. He needs someone to hear him.

Belle takes a small step forward. "So in the beginning, your magic acted on impulse."

"There was a farmer. . . .He was driving a donkey cart to market. The donkey knocked Bae down, skinning his knee, and so the farmer had to be punished, and publicly, for all the village to see. It was to protect Bae, I thought; I had to make an example of the farmer, or else others would strike at Bae to strike at me. Many, many people tried over the centuries to gain possession of the dagger so that they could control me, but the clever ones realized that it would be far easier to gain possession of Bae. So I had to make it clear from the outset that Bae was untouchable, and so when the farmer caused my son injury, I caused the farmer's death."

Belle bites her lip to keep from responding. Her reaction now, she realizes, will determine just how far along this path Rumple is willing to go, and if this path leads to healing, they must follow it, for as long as they can.

"There were others. I looked for excuses, opportunities, I told myself, to strike fear, to strike first, so no one would come after Bae. But sometimes. . . it wasn't a father lashing out to protect his son; it was the village whipping boy proving he'd never be bullied again. It felt good to see them fall at my feet. It felt good to. . .cause fear and. . .pain. Eventually I gained control of my magic; I learned to separate impulse from imagination. I mastered my power, but I didn't always master myself. After Bae left, after I dedicated myself to creating the curse, I acted less rashly, but no less cruelly; I just channeled my destruction in ways that would advance my cause. Sometimes I questioned my methods, but I seldom questioned my motives, until—"

"Until?"

"You."

"You were a man of many powers, Rumple. You didn't have to use brute force."

"No, I didn't," he admits. "But it was. . .satisfying. Even as Mr. Gold, a man of refinement and restraint—it felt good to have my enemies cower at my feet. That will always be in me, Belle. The best I can do is. . .to do the best I can to keep the monster chained."

"Is that what you want?" She lets the dishrag fall into the water, now cold. She faces him, and he's compelled to face her.

"The thing inside me that could hurt a child—" his jaw clenches and he can't bear to say any more.

"If the impulse could cause magic to do evil," she suggests gently, "could it also cause magic to do good?"

A small light flickers in his eyes and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "As in. . .fix a broken rope? Magic by subconscious?"

She shrugs slightly. "There is good in your nature, too. Is it so farfetched to believe that you might have stopped yourself from hurting Henry?"

"Perhaps." He attacks a plate with his dishtowel. "But perhaps what matters more is that I started to hurt him to begin with."

"Have you given up on yourself, Rumple?"

"Bae did."

"But I haven't."

He sets the plate and dishtowel aside and takes her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. "The strange thing is, as long as I have magic, I can't give up on myself. If I did, all hell would break loose."

"And if you didn't have magic?" She waits as he considers his answer. "You brought magic back so you could find Bae. You found him."

"But he didn't find me."

"Because all he can see is the magic."

"Surely a man who's achieved the goal of a lifetime can be done with it," he murmurs.

"Is is possible? Is there a way to be done with the magic? Besides. . . ."

"Being stabbed to death," he finishes for her. "Or creating another curse to take me to yet another land without magic. There may be another way. No one has ever tried it before—no one ever wanted to give up the power before—but there is a theory of how it could be done."

"And if you were free of the magic, would you. . . ."

"Be free of the monster? No. The best I can hope for is to render him toothless."

"Would you give up magic to do that?"

"That, my love, is the billion-dollar question." He rests his chin on the top of her head. "I honestly don't know."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**A/N. Since I started this story before "Going Home" aired (and I'm _never_ right in guessing what Kitsis & Horowitz will write!), in my tale, Rumple killed Pan while they were still on Neverland (and I remain in denial that Rumple died. In fact, I'm working on a theory for a future story. . . .)**

* * *

If not for the unqualified praises of forty-seven ladies (yes, he's kept count), Hook might have a doubt or two right now about his skills in the bedroom (and parlor, dining room, bathroom, kitchen, garden tool shed. . . ). Instead, he props himself up on an elbow and looks down into the face of his current paramour. For more reasons than one, he really does care what she's thinking–to ignore her moods could be very dangerous.

"What troubles you, my queen?"

She no longer notices the twinge of sarcasm in his form of address. Or maybe she just can't be bothered: he knows–she's never misled him in this–that he's a toy, and for Regina, playtime never lasts long. It's a fact for which he's grateful.

He's not quite sure how they've ended up here: he supposes she needed a sounding board for her schemes (with Regina, there's always a scheme in the works, even if it's just a plan to steal advertisers away from her competition, GOLD-FM). He's the only man in town who isn't either afraid of her or married, so for now, he suffices.

As for his own motivations, he may have assumed–wrongly–that he would find congeniality with another whose lust for revenge has gone unsatisfied. What he's failed to admit to himself is that he just doesn't feel the same any more about anything.

Maybe that's why he stays with Regina: he wants his fire back.

"Power was meant to be used," she murmurs. "And power like that. . . . Never before and never again will such power exist. It's a pity to let it rot in nowhereland."

"That again." He drops onto his back and stares at her ceiling. "You sound just like your mother."

"She was right about many things."

"You have power: sixty people depend upon you for their livelihood. You're the richest woman in town–"

"Woman," she interrupts. "Not 'person.'"

"You have more than you can spend in a lifetime. You have beauty and youth, and a son who loves you–"

"Who visits every other week. Visits! This is his home; he belongs here."

"Oh, let's not tread down that well-worn path, shall we, love? Besides, if you had the Dark One's dagger, what would you do with it? He's too cunning to control for long, and you don't really want to become the Dark One yourself, do you? It's hardly the pleasure cruise it seems. You know that."

"All that magic going to waste."

"Love, do us a favor: fire somebody tomorrow. You'll feel better."

"She went there," Regina speculates. "I could conjure another cuff and go there too. He's probably so googly-eyed over her I could walk right up to him and stab him in the back."

"You heard him: the dagger is hidden and not even he knows where."

"But it was his shadow that hid it. His shadow would have to bring it back, if I threatened Belle."

"If you threaten Belle, he will kill you. Without hesitation or remorse, he will kill you. Tell you what, love: if you need more magic, why not break into his shop and take his books and things."

"That's why you never achieved your revenge." She glares at him. "You think small."

"Shut up and get some sleep–Cora."

* * *

"Today I'll go hunting with you," Belle announces casually, but her pale face belies her tone.

"Do you want to learn how to shoot, or render the meat?"

She answers too hastily. "No. Not yet. But I'll walk with you."

"One step at a time, sweetheart." He slides his knife into his belt and his quiver onto his shoulder like a primitive, but he holds the front door open for her like a gentleman. He is changing here: just as much as he's becoming what the island requires of him, he's also changing in ways that are good for him, good for her; and she too will change. She will do her best to make certain it's in ways that will strengthen their bond.

She does not look away when his arrow brings down a deer. She does not back away when his knife against the animal's throat finishes the job.

He makes no comment, but he takes sympathy on her that evening by, without comment, serving grilled cheese sandwiches as the main course.

* * *

While Henry plays video games at Slightly and Pinocchio's house, Emma, her parents, Hook and Regina meet to debate the inclusion of Henry in yet another meeting Archie has called to discuss Rumplestiltskin's exile. Surprisingly, Regina offers up her home as the site for this debate: not surprisingly, David wants to refuse the invitation, but Emma barks at him until he backs down. "She's trying; cut her some slack. Anyway, we let Henry live here every other week, so how can we chicken out?"

"This is pointless. Archie wants yet another meeting?" Regina is the first to speak as her housekeeper serves tea. "We've discussed this time and time again. What makes him think another round will have a different result?"

"I quite agree," Hook declares. "We've beat this dead horse into a bloody pulp."

"Besides," she adds, "there's no way to bring him back, even if we wanted to."

"Yeah, there is," Emma corrects. "The same way Ariel came here and Belle went there."

"Belle took the only bracelet. I'm not so sure I can make another," Regina demurs. "I made that bracelet in a land replete with magic. There may not be enough magic here."

Emma smirks at her. "Maybe you don't have enough power, but I'll bet you and I together would, if you honestly tried."

Hook rescues his lady: "Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves, ladies? No decision has been taken to bring Rumplestiltskin back. Save that for the next meeting. This meeting, as I recall, is to decide whether Henry will be allowed to attend that meeting and have a say in the proceedings."

After two hours of deliberations, with the Charmings siding with Regina in the "no Henry" argument, Emma wins: she simply declares that she's bringing Henry whether anyone likes it or not and if they don't they can expect to find parking tickets on their cars tomorrow.

When no one follows her, Emma smiles. She's going to have to try this particular debate technique more often.

* * *

Rumple and Belle are walking back from her garden. They carry baskets filled with cucumbers, lettuce, carrots and celery: a big salad will be their evening meal, with Rumple's secret-recipe dressing.

They are joking, reminiscing, avoiding the uncomfortable topics to shore up their rapport. But as they walk through the Lost Boys' compound, they pass a crude rope swing tied to a tree, and Rumple catches his breath. All humor drained, he stares at it a long time. When at last he collects his basket again, he says, "It doesn't matter if I broke that rope or not."

Belle scowls. "Why?"

"It was in my mind to do it."

"I don't think the law would see intention and execution as quite the same." She doesn't remind him that he used to say _Intention is meaningless_. They walk into their cottage, proceed to the kitchen to wash and chop the vegetables. They work silently, but they're thinking the same thoughts.

"Rumple." She grabs his arm suddenly. "If you had the opportunity today to sidestep the prophecy by killing Henry, would you?"

His stare is answer enough.

"If, morally, a man is just as guilty for what he intends as for what he does, then doesn't it stand that he is not guilty of what he no longer intends?" He doesn't reply, so she continues, "And if he has changed, shouldn't he allow himself a chance to start again?" When he still doesn't reply, she asks, "Is death the only acceptable price for redemption?"

"Put the kettle on, Belle."

Her mouth pulls tight as she pours water into the teakettle. Is he shutting down again, running away from this conversation that they both need to have? Silently, he sets out cups and the sugar bowl and the pitcher of milk; his back is to her and she stares as if she could stare a hole through it to his heart. Once the table is set and the kettle on the stove, he withdraws a chair from the kitchen table. "Please." He waves at the chair, indicating she should sit. "There are. . . things we should talk about." As she seats herself and he draws the chair in, he adds, "Beginning with. . . how my father died."

She thinks she knows the story, from the tales the rescuers told, so she's puzzled. "In battle, wasn't it? He tried to take Henry's heart."

Rumplestiltskin seats himself beside her. "I trapped him in Pandora's Box, and then I set the box on fire, and when there was nothing left but ashes, I summoned a wind to carry them away. I could have left him alive, imprisoned in that box. It would have been the sort of thing a hero like Charming or Snow would do—or you. But I feared what might happen if I let him live, and so I killed him."

"I think you had to," she argues. "You knew better than anyone what he was capable of."

He takes her hands. "I killed him, not out of justice, but out of fear. Once again, I let fear rule me. And that's what makes me a monster; not because I act out of cruelty or greed, but out of fear." The kettle shrills, as though blowing a siren in alarm against him. With a flick of a finger, he turns the burner off and his magic carries the kettle to the table, where it comes to rest on a potholder. "That's the true nature of my curse, Belle, and not all the kisses True Love can muster can break it. I can't recall a single day of my life when I haven't felt afraid—until now."

"Now?" Belle frowns, trying to understand. "Because Pan is gone?"

"Because _I'm_ gone," he explains. "I'm safe here, in exile from everyone. I can't hurt anyone any more."

* * *

"This is becoming wearisome," Hook grumbles as he squeezes himself in between Regina and Emma on Archie's cracked leather couch.

Henry perches on the arm of the couch with Emma's hand resting protectively on his knee. She leans into him and whispers, "You okay, kid?" At his nod, she adds, "If you want to leave at any point, just say so. This could get rough."

He gives her a hard look. "That's why I have to stay."

She tilts her head, noticing for the first time that he's lost the baby fat from his cheeks. She wonders when that happened and how it escaped her notice before.

"Can we get on with this, please, Dr. Hopper?" Regina wrinkles her nose at the particle board end table before she sets her pocketbook down upon it. "I have another meeting this evening—one at which something may actually be accomplished."

"Oh, I think we'll get somewhere tonight," Archie snaps, and all heads swing in surprise in his direction. "But if you're inconvenienced, Regina, you may leave. We can get along very well without you."

"And have you sobbing some tale of how poor little Rumple was abused as a child and so, three hundred years later, we should go easy on him? I think not—"

"Regina, can it!" Bae barks. "Yeah, we all met my grandfather. We all got a pretty good idea what my dad's upbringing was probably like. But he never used that as an excuse for his behavior, and neither will anyone here. He would be the first to tell you, he did what he did and that's all there is to it."

"Oh ho, I see the lay of the land," Regina hoots. "It's been two years and you've all gone soft, haven't you? You've forgotten two very salient facts: Number One, he's still the Dark One, the most evil—and must I remind you, most powerful—being to walk the earth. Number Two, he tried to kill Henry. Those two facts ought to be enough to put an end to this 'discussion' right now. Any sane person—"

"We don't know that he tried to kill Henry," Archie interrupts. "There's no physical evidence, no witness—"

"We have his word," Bae says, staring at the carpet. "His confession."

"So whose side are you on, lad?" Hook pushes.

"I dunno." Bae shrugs. "Henry's."

"Me too," Snow says. "I want what's best for Henry."

"We all do," Archie says. "Of course we do. But we have to live with this decision, so I for one want to be sure of the facts before I condemn a man to—"

"To what, Archie? We didn't execute him," David points out.

"I'd say he has it pretty plush, as prisons go," Hook comments. "The island provides sufficient game and vegetation, fresh water—"

"And he has his lady love to snuggle with at night," Regina sneers. "Prison? Bah! Sounds more like a Hawaiian honeymoon to me."

"Let's not forget what's important here," David argues. "If we allow him to come back—assuming it's even possible—will Henry be safe from him? Will any of us?"

"What about the law?" Emma butts in. "You—we—yes, I'm guilty too—we acted like a bunch of vigilantes back there. Well, maybe we had to; we couldn't exactly convene a court. But we have a chance now to do it right—"

"Bring him back for a trial?" David protests. "Emma, you can't be serious."

"Why not? Maybe then we could get some sleep at night, knowing we did it right, the way the law—"

"Doesn't anybody want to hear what I think?" Henry shouts, sliding to his feet and positioning himself in the middle of the living room. "This is supposed to be about protecting me, isn't it? Well?"

"Yes, of course, Henry, we want to hear what you think," Regina purrs.

"And I'm sure you'll be glad to tell him what he thinks," Emma mutters.

"Please," Archie implores, "this is important for Henry and it's important for us as the adults in his life to listen to him."

"I'm not a goofy little kid any more," Henry announces. "My own great-grandfather would've killed me just so he would live longer, and the same thing for my grandfather. I'm not the same kid I was before Tamara and Greg kidnapped me."

"I'm sorry, Henry." Snow reaches out for him. "No child should ever have to go through any of that."

"But I did, and you saved me. All of you saved me." He's looking at Hook and Regina as he speaks. Regina glows with pride and Hook winks at the boy; he's thanking them, they realize. And then he surprises them: "And so did he. My grandfather. I didn't know him as my grandfather long enough to call him that, but I knew him all my life, and one thing I know is he would hurt somebody if he wanted them out of his way. But I also know he doesn't lie, so if he said he tried to kill me—he did. And if he said he changed his mind and he'd give up his life to protect me—he would. He killed his father to protect me; I think that proves it."

"So, Henry, you're saying you forgive Mr. Gold?" Archie asks.

"I'm saying," Henry scans the adults with a blazing gaze, "bring him home." He raises his hand high in the air, even as Regina and David make sounds of protest. "I vote: Bring my grandfather home."

Bae nods slowly. "Yeah." Then after a slight hesitation, he raises his hand. "I vote with Henry."

"Wait a minute," David tries to interrupt. "Who said we were voting?"

"I do." Emma raises her hand. "Bring him home. Let the law deal with him."

Archie raises his hand and counts aloud. "Four against four—"

Snow's mouth twists as she deliberates, but suddenly she corrects Archie by raising her own hand. "Three. It's five against three."

"You people are out of your minds," Hook complains, but it's hard to hear him over Henry's cheer as the boy throws himself into Snow's arms.

"I hardly think a thirteen-year-old—" Regina starts, but she clamps her mouth shut; after everything Henry's been through, she won't challenge his right to voice an opinion. "Just what do you think the Dark One will do when—if—you bring him back? Kiss your cheeks and say 'Thank you very much'?" She thrusts an angry finger at Archie's chest. "Don't think he'll let you off the hook just because you weren't in Neverland with the rest of us. You let him back here, Rumplestiltskin's going to be out for blood and he won't care whose he spills. I've known him longer than the rest of you put together, and—"

"No, you haven't," Bae interrupts. "You only know the Dark One. You never met my father. And that's who we're bringing back."

"I've got news for you, Baelfire," Hook says. "That man—that quaking, limping little man you remember so fondly from eons ago—died when he acquired magic. There's no bringing him back, no matter how fervently you wish it." He lowers his eyes and his voice. "No matter how much you may wish to apologize for the cowardly way you treated him."

Regina stands, brushing her hands together dismissively. "Well, you all have overlooked one small detail: you don't have the means for going back to Neverland, and I'm not about to produce one for you." She collects her pocketbook and tugs at her skirt to straighten it. "So good luck with that." She walks out, Hook in tow.

"Yeah, but we've got three things in our favor," Emma calls out after her. "We got a convent full of fairies we can call on, we got a shop full of magic books and whatnot, and we've got my raw power."

"One more thing, Emma," Snow adds. "We've got hope. We've always got hope."

"And still one more thing," Archie adds, fishing for his cell. "We've got the Blue Fairy's phone number."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

As Pongo whines softly, asking to leave, Archie stands stock-still at the edge of a dock. Boats are coming in, the sunset calling the fishermen home. The _Jolly Roger_ is docked somewhere around here; Archie has no interest in awakening unpleasant memories by visiting it. He's come here, rather, to try to imagine the ocean through Belle's eyes. What must she have felt as her legs transformed into a fish tail, just before she plunged into the cold water, striking out for a place she'd never seen? Had she trembled, and if she had, had it been in fear of the unknown, in dread for what she was leaving behind, or in excitement?

Archie stares into the water and wonders if he could find the courage to change his entire life, as she did, with a single jump. If he could ever trust magic enough, or love someone enough to make that jump.

But they're going to bring Rumplestiltskin home, and that's a huge leap of faith. Maybe, he tells himself, he's braver than he thinks.

* * *

The Blue Fairy, after puppy faces from Henry, heavy-armed pressure from Emma and lots of word-twisting from Bae, has acquiesced: she will work simultaneously on several means that could bring Rumplestiltskin back. She reminds them she might fail. She reminds them the work could take months, years. She reminds them that even if she succeeds, she won't give them the product of her labors until the town's leaders, herself included, have also found a way to ensure Rumplestiltskin will never use his magic to harm an innocent again.

"He'll give his word," Bae says gruffly.

"He gave his word to you once before, and what was it worth?"

"For a woman who's spend the last thirty years preaching redemption and forgiveness, you're one hard ass, aren't you?" Emma mutters.

"So is he," Blue barks back. "I'll work on portals, but you work on some method of containment stronger than words. You're not getting the portal until I've seen what you've come up with."

"Maybe we should've gone to Tink instead," Bae grumbles.

* * *

Belle approaches the smoke house to inform her beloved that lunch is ready, but she finds herself leaning in the doorway instead, watching him in silence as he lifts a side of venison and attaches it to a hook hanging three feet above his head. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt, an unadorned denim, is unbuttoned. The exposure allows her to observe some of the changes that have taken place in his body these past two years: his chest and belly are defined now with long, lean muscle and tight browned skin. Although the sun has deepened the wrinkles around his eyes and the years have expanded the gray in his hair, she thinks he looks younger, and she, meanwhile, with hands reddened from work and skin wind-roughened, looks older.

She's not bothered by this. In fact, she rather likes the idea that, physically, they're growing closer. She lays a hand against her belly, tight like his, and watches a little longer before she delivers her message. She's in no hurry; they have all the time in the world.

* * *

Hook might have been jealous when Regina informed him she wanted a short break in their dating, though not their relationship, except she also has taken a leave of absence from MAGE-TV and, apparently, the town: Ruby has remarked upon the queen's seeming disappearance, and even the banker has been overheard grumbling to his VP about the slump in his social life since Regina dumped him. Even her hairdresser and manicurist haven't seen her in four weeks, and they're worried: her patronage pays their rent.

Hook might have been jealous, but he's a man of action (and he's not in love anyway, just in need of occasional companionship), so after work he starts parking across the street from her mansion, the lights of which are always on but the curtains of which are always drawn. He sits there each night for a solid two hours, sipping rum and waiting for something to happen, but no one arrives or leaves.

He's not jealous. He's suspicious.

* * *

Emma plops her bare feet into Bae's lap and drops her weary head against the arm of the couch—their couch, in their house. They've unpacked the few boxes they carried in this morning: they're light travelers; the burdens they've carried over the years have been of the emotional kind. But, though neither of them will admit it, they both wonder if the wandering is over, because this house on West Moncton, just six blocks from the sheriff's office, feels like home.

Bae takes the hint and begins to massage Emma's feet. She moans her appreciation and snuggles deeper into the couch. With his free hand, he grabs the remote (the first thing he'd unpacked) and clicks the TV on, searching for a ball game. He stumbles across a commercial for Ella's Bridal Shop instead: "you'll feel like a princess in our gowns."

Bae observes the bright smiles and glowing cheeks on the model brides, and he feels guilty. For the fifteenth time, he asks, "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," she groans. "Now shut up and massage."

"I know, I know you said you're not the ceremony type, but it would mean a lot to your mother and your father. Henry would get a big kick out of it too."

"A trip to the Justice of the Peace will accomplish the same purpose with a lot less hassle. You ever been to a wedding in this world before?"

"You know I haven't."

"Well, it's not like in the commercials. You want to get the real picture, watch a couple of episodes of _Bridezilla_."

"We could just let your parents plan the whole thing. I mean, you and I don't really care about the flowers and music and clothes, do we? Why not let them have some fun? It's not like we can't afford to make a deal of it. Let's give your folks a memory; they deserve it."

The Ella's Bridal commercial is followed by a Jared's commercial.

"A trip to the JP will—"

"No, it won't. Babe, a little sentimentality won't kill us."

She sighs, half in frustration over the argument, half in contentment because his magic fingers are finding every knot in her calves. "It's my wedding, isn't it? And frilly dresses and flowers aren't my style. I'm not a princess, Neal, don't want to be. I'm a working-class gal and that's how I like it."

This isn't what's really eating her—he's seen her pause in front of Ella's on her patrols, and he knows she knows a wedding would mean a lot to her folks, since they didn't get to give her a childhood. Sure, weddings are expensive and the Charmings' income from David's job at the animal shelter and Snow's teaching position won't stretch that far, but Bae's already talked it out privately with David; the prince is okay with the idea of Bae paying for everything but the dress. After all, Bae has too few reasons to spend his father's billion-and-a-quarter.

Well, Henry will move in here tomorrow. Emma has a hard time saying no to Henry.

"You know me. You know my shop. But when was the last time you stopped by?"

Emma's eyes fly open and Bae stops massaging as Gold's voice comes through Bae's intricately rigged speaker system.

"Damn," Emma mutters, rolling over onto her side, away from the TV.

"You might be surprised to discover I have your life, from the glinting mobiles that hung over your crib when you were a babe—"

"I'll call Dale in the morning. I'm sure it's just an oversight." Bae snaps the TV off. "That should've been taken off the air two years ago." He resumes the massage, but with less enthusiasm.

After a long while, Emma says quietly, "That's why."

"Why what?"

Her voice drops even lower. "Why I don't want a wedding."

He understands now. He feels the same way, though he's never told anyone. "Yeah."

"Not until we make things right."

"Blue's working on it."

"She's been working on it for six months. Why's it taking so long?"

"Magic has a mind of its own." Bae presses his thumbs into her insteps, where all the aches and pains in her body tend to gather. "I'd like him to be there too."

"You have doubts about that rope too, huh?"

It would be easier to lie, but Emma would detect it; she always does. "No. I think he would've killed Henry then. But I also think he'd die to protect Henry now, and I think I'm ready to give him another chance."

"You can forgive him, then?"

"I think I already have." Bae sighs. "Gods know why, but I have."

* * *

On the day the sheriff and the reporter marry in the courthouse, Regina emerges from her mansion. Her hair's a shaggy mess; she can't put off a trip to the salon any longer, nor must she: she's finished her work.

The manicurist (whom Hook's been seeing just to pass the time) tips Hook off, and as soon as the black Mercedes pulls out of its garage, the pirate emerges from behind the garbage cans. He doesn't have a key for the back door—Regina's never allowed him that much control—but he has a hook, and in a few minutes he's inside. He makes quick work of the security alarm. He's been in every room in this house except Henry's, the attic and the laundry. As he expects, it's the attic where Regina's set up her lab/library.

On the shelves are tin boxes marked with pictographs, vials of liquids and jars of powders and canisters of various other stuff he has no interest in. On the floor are stacks of books, old, pages yellowed, but somehow preserved from dissolution. His suspicion about the proper owner of these books is confirmed when he discovers a shopping bag with a "Mr. Gold Pawnbroker" logo emblazoned on it. So Regina has done some "shopping" in a shop that's been locked for nearly three years, has she? If he called the sheriff, Hook muses, Regina would finally be jailed at last—caught, as often happens, for a careless petty crime. He wonders if Emma's magic could keep Regina jailed.

He easily finds the project that's taken up all of Regina's time these past months. She hasn't tried to hide it: with the lock-picking Crocodile gone, she doesn't feel the need. The iron box stands proudly in the center of the worktable.

He reaches to open the box, but his fingers burn as soon as they make contact with the lid. There's some sort of heat spell on the damn thing. No matter: he pulls the lid open by its wire handle, using his hook. Inside lies a jewel-encrusted leather cuff. When he picks it up, it vibrates, and he has no doubt now that this bracelet is far more than an adornment. The only question is what to do with it. He can steal it easily enough, but she'll just create another, in much less time, now that she's got the spells right.

Idly, he fastens the bracelet around his own wrist. He's engulfed instantly in a purple cloud and his legs begin to shake and shudder. He tumbles, his hook flying out in a vain attempt to break his fall, and his arm ends up dangling off the edge of the wooden table. As he frees himself, he dares to look down at his legs.

The cuff works. Captain Hook is now a merman.

* * *

"You haven't used magic once today," Belle exclaims as she scrubs the skillet. "Or yesterday."

He slings his dishtowel over his shoulder and places their freshly washed plates in the cupboard. "I think you're right. Unless you count the spell that keeps this cottage running."

"You cast that eleven months ago."

"Has it been that long?" He now sets the flatwear in a drawer. "We'll have an anniversary soon." His arms slide around her and he kisses the top of her head. "Shall we do something special?" He waves a hand toward the kitchen window. "Dinner in Paris? Dancing in New York?"

She giggles as he intended, but there's a trace of sadness in it and he catches it. He presses his lips to her ear. "Conjuring a Parisian café or a New York ballroom in the jungle would be a very good use of magic."

"I'd like that," she decides. "Yes, conjure me Paris." Being stuck in Neverland is a sacrifice, she admits to herself, but not such a big one.

* * *

Hook strolls brazenly across the manicured lawn, bearing his sexiest grin and a box from Game of Thorns. The two most interesting ladies in town stand on Regina's veranda, and he intends not to walk away until he's won the attentions of one and the jealousy of the other. It's going to be a battle, though: Regina is shouting and waving her hands, magic sparking from the fingertips, as Emma scribbles some notes.

"Barely three hours," Regina spouts. "A quick trip to the salon. Both doors were locked and so were all the windows."

"And nobody has a key," Emma throws a nasty look at Hook. "Not even him?"

"Not even my housekeeper," Regina insists. "The security system was armed and working properly."

"Well, I'll have a look around." Emma snaps her notebook shut. "If you don't mind." Regina scowls. "For signs of break-in?" Emma presses. Regina pushes the front door open and allows Emma to enter.

She then turns on Hook. "What are you doing here?"

He offers her the box—nine perfect blood-red roses (because twelve is cliche). "I thought I'd ask you to lunch. You've kept me dangling quite a while now."

"I've been busy. I'm still busy, so no, no thank you."

"I see." He feigns concern. "A break-in?"

"Someone got in and stole from me."

"I hope you didn't lose too much. Money is replaceable with your insurance policy, but your jewels are irreplaceable. Those ruby earrings—it would be a tragedy to lose those."

Her mouth is a red slash across the porcelain skin of her face. "Nothing I can't replace, in time. Go away, Hook; do something useful and go out and catch a burglar. I have to deal with the sheriff now." She thrusts the flowers back at him without opening them and shuts the door in his face.

* * *

Belle lies on her right side, facing the open window. A breeze brings subtle smells in, bananas and oranges, smoked venison and boar and fish, smells that mean sustenance and comfort, smells of her home.

Her beloved shifts in his sleep, his arm slipping from her waist to her hip. He sleeps soundly now, awakes refreshed. His work here never ends and always tires him. He tells her he seldom remembers his dreams any more; real life is more interesting.

Belle admires the full moon hovering above the banana trees. She's read many tales of the moon, and like most women from the old world, she feels a special connection to it. The sun, with its powers, so strong and obvious, dictates the motions of men—certainly, her beloved answers to it; but the moon is hers, linking her to all women in all places.

And directing her time, as the sun directs the time of a man. Twelve full moons she's counted since arriving here. He gave her Paris in the jungle tonight, as he promised: demitasses and crème brulee at a little iron table in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. The accoutrements were fake but the sentiments real.

Two full moons she's counted since her body started ignoring the moon's pull.

She slides her hand thoughtfully over her belly.

* * *

With a shiver from the cold night air, Regina slaps at the cuff on her wrist, and when her human form returns, she emerges gracefully from the sea. She pauses a moment to admire her legs in the moonlight. That's one of the benefits to living in the modern world, she thinks; in the Enchanted Forest, fashion demanded that she wear those awful floor-length gowns and only a select few were privileged to see these flawless legs. She conjures a pair of slacks and some sturdy shoes for her tramp through the jungle. She scowls at the dark sky: she'd forgotten to allow for the time difference when she set out. Just as well, perhaps: she will catch the imp snoozing.

And everyone knows, when it comes to magic, you snooze, you lose.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Regina brushes a stray lock of damp hair out of her eyes, then puffs tiredly—and wheels about and slams a palm against a banana tree. This damn island! She's sure she set out in the right direction for the Lost Boys' Hideout, but seven hours and a broken boot heel later, she's so deep in the jungle she can't see the sun any more. When she first set out, she conjured a compass, but quickly realized it would do no good without a map, and that's something her magic can't produce. She's been operating on memory ever since, and to tell the truth, she wasn't paying that much attention the first time she was here: she was kind of busy with Tink and Hook and Emma, not to mention her worries about Henry.

Her stomach growls and her feet hurt like hell and that dagger's no closer. She conjures a campfire, including an air-conditioned tent and a queen-sized bed, and after dining on lobster newberg and a lovely Pinot Gris, she lies down for just a little rest. She'll think clearly after a nap.

Maybe she should have brought Hook.

* * *

"I had a dream last night," Rumple remarks over his tea.

"Oh?" But she takes the cue in his playful smile. "Not a nightmare, I assume."

"Far from it. Belle, somewhere on this island there's a tribe of pixies. I've never made an effort to seek them out–you know how I feel about fairies, and pixies aren't much different. They've never come looking for me either, as far as I know. But I think it's time."

"Why?"

In reply, he rises from his chair and crouches beside hers. "Witnesses." He takes her hand. "A wedding needs witnesses." He removes his hand, leaving behind a velvet box in her palm. A jewelry box. "Marry me, sweetheart?"

Her lips form a single word, but before she releases it, she needs to tell him something. "Rumple, there's something. . . I'm not absolutely sure, but. . . ."

"_I'm_ sure." He presses his hand to her belly. "The baby will arrive in May."

"How did you know?"

He chuckles. "I live with you, sweetheart. I notice things that are _not_ happening with you as well as things that are."

"Oh." She blushes, then bites her lip. "I thought pregnancy couldn't happen, that the magic made it impossible."

"So did I. But it has."

Belle presses a protective hand to her belly. "Rumple, I want this baby. Can you accept him?"

"I fell in love with her the instant I met her." His eyes are glistening. "She came to me in the dream. She reached for me with her spinner's hands, and she said, 'Love you, Daddy.' In that instant, she became mine, and I became hers. So the only question left for me is, do you love me too?"

"I swam an ocean for you—and I can't even swim!"

He dimples. "Can I take that as a 'yes'?"

"Yes, Rumple, I love you and I'll marry you, pixies and all!"

* * *

"Sheriff—uhm—Cassidy? Or is it Gold?"

Emma glances up from her laptop and scowls at the leather-clad customer rapping on her open office door. "What trouble are you in now, Hook? And it's still Sheriff Swan. I didn't change my name, considering Baelfire doesn't have a last name."

Anything he says will bounce against the wall of suspicion she'll always raise against him, so instead he tosses his gift at her and she catches it neatly. "What the—" She examines it. "This looks like the bracelet Regina reported as stolen."

"It is." He leans against the doorjamb; casualness makes a guy look cool, so he just can't help himself, even though she's well and truly claimed, and to a fellow Hook is rather fond of. "One and the same."

"You took it." Emma sighs. "I wondered. It had to be an inside job, and Mrs. Potts isn't the thieving type. You wanna give me an excuse before I lock you up and call Regina?"

"Call if you like but she won't answer. Do you know what this bracelet does, Sheriff?"

"Yeah."

"I took it to slow her progress. Unfortunately, it only delayed her journey by a few days: she made a duplicate. Apparently she finished it this morning, because she's gone now."

Is that a flicker of concern crossing the pirate's smarmy face? Emma has her doubts: Hook cares about nobody and, other than his ship and his Trans Am, nothing. "Gone where?"

"Neverland."

"What the hell fo—oh, crap." The sheriff has just figured it out. "It's Cora all over again."

"Indeed."

"Did you see her leave?"

"Aye." He doesn't explain that he's been spying on Regina for months now, and Emma has the good sense not to ask. "She dove off Gooseneck Dock at seven-fifteen this morning."

"Must be in a hurry to find that dagger," Emma comments. "She never gets up before nine."

"You don't sound worried."

"We've been through this before, remember?" Emma sighs again. "But this time, not even Gold knows where the dagger is."

"May I remind you, Swan, he's no longer alone on the island."

"Belle," Emma runs a hand through her hair. "Regina usually goes for the direct hit, but—"

"She wouldn't be above attacking the Crocodile where he's most vulnerable."

"Guess you'd know all about that," Emma growls. "That 'my shadow hid it' excuse won't fly with Regina, I suppose."

"She'll assume if he's desperate enough, the Dark One will find a way to recover his dagger."

Emma sits back in her chair and studies him critically. "You're her lover. Why shouldn't I think you're working with her and you coming here is some sort of scheme?"

"'Lover' implies an emotion that I don't happen to feel for Regina," the pirate replies. "If she succeeds, I have no doubt I'd be in as much danger as the rest of you. That's why I'm here. And if you still doubt me, I would ask you to consider three little words."

Emma curls her lip. "You're not going to tell me you love me, are you, Hook?"

He lays his hands on her desk and leans forward. "The three little words I mean are 'Dark One Regina.'"

Emma shudders and snatches up the mermaid cuff. "Guess I'm going swimming."

* * *

Belle is on her knees, weeding her garden. Rumple is up a tree, in more ways than one: he's gathering oranges—he's determined Belle will have lots of vitamin C for the baby—and he's worrying about the future. Unfortunately, the not-so-distant future. He missed out on Milah's pregnancy, but he knows that an expectant mother requires three things: exercise, which Belle will get plenty of here; nutrition, which the island and his magic can provide. . .

And a doctor. Not Whale—good gods, no—but the dwarf would be perfect. Belle likes the dwarfs and Rumple trusts Doc, even if he did get his medical degree from a pickax. If he was good enough to deliver the savior, he's good enough to deliver Rumple's baby. (Besides, he owes Gold money.)

The doctor needs to be in on the deal from the start. The baby's already two months along; Belle can't neglect herself any longer.

From a tree limb, he watches her and wonders how to convince Belle she has to go back—and whether he will go with her, breaking yet another promise to Bae.

* * *

Regina awakens refreshed, though sticky from the heat. She conjures a claw-foot bathtub and enjoys a soak while she contemplates her next move. She idly snatches at a sparkly bubble floating away from her bath, and the answer suddenly comes to her, inspired by the drifting bubble.

She climbs out of the bath, towels off and dresses in fresh attire as she struggles to remember the smattering of Pixish she picked up, years ago, from Tink. The sun is setting: she must act fast, for the pixies dance at sunset, then retire with the rise of the moon. She cups her hands around her mouth and calls out, and when a puzzled pixie arrives and bows respectfully and inquires how she may be of service, Regina grins. Her hand snakes out and snatches the pixie from mid-air.

"Now, you glorified firefly, lead me to Rumplestiltskin."

* * *

Rumple's created a porch for Belle from which to watch the sun go down, and a porch requires a swing, and a swing requires a lawn. Belle balks at the tulips with which he wants to line the sidewalk, however: she prefers to grow her own flowers, now that she has time–now that she doesn't have to worry about henchmen trying to capture her or pirates trying to shoot her.

"I wonder what the baby's thinking in there," Belle muses. Rumple cocks an eyebrow, and she catches his meaning. "You _know_?"

"Not yet, but I can ask her." His eyes twinkle as his hand hovers over Belle's stomach. "Shall I?"

"Really? You're kidding me, aren't you?"

"Well, partially. She doesn't have words yet or images, so she doesn't have thoughts, exactly, but she does have primary emotions."

"And your magic can read them."

"Yes. And transmit some basic emotions of my own to her."

"The magic won't hurt her?"

He shakes his head. "No ill effects. I've seen many a midwife make such an inquiry, without discomfort to the mother or the baby."

"Midwives can be sorceresses?"

"It's the other way around. Sometimes a sorceress will become a midwife, since she can't have a child of her own." He rests his hand on her stomach; she feels warmth and tingling, but as he said, no discomfort.

"What about Cora? Did she. . . steal Regina from another woman or. . .conjure her? Is Regina her natural child?"

"Nothing 'natural' there. Cora was so determined to have a child to place on the throne that she made a deal with the devil. You know she surrendered her heart to marry Henry; after that, the next step was easy. She traded her immortal soul for a baby. Many have made such a trade to acquire magic, but Cora was the first and last to trade for a baby."

Belle shudders. "And. . . you. . . ?"

"There is no possibility of making a fair trade for a soul, so one of the immutable laws of magic is that one can only trade one's soul in full knowledge of the consequences."

"And you became the Dark One through trickery."

"My immortal soul is intact. Which also means I'm responsible for its maintenance. It's the only line I dared not cross in my attempts to find Bae." He smiles at her belly. "A decision I'm exceptionally pleased with, particularly now."

Belle rests her own hand atop his. "Tell her I love her."

"We don't need magic for that," he assures her. He closes his eyes and presses his hand more firmly to her belly. The warmth flows through her, all the way to her toes and the roots of her hair. She feels as relaxed as if she'd just had a full-body massage. Her head falls lazily on his shoulder. "Baby girl," she hears him whisper. "We welcome you to this world."

In the distance the seagulls sing an exotic lullaby; beneath their joined hands, her belly rises and falls rhythmically, reassuringly. She's at peace, and she hopes that through the love of his daughter and his wife, Rumple will come to peace too.

It's the only place to find freedom.

She yawns, then pries her eyes open to find night has fallen. "Did I fall asleep?"

"It's been about an hour," he replies.

"Mmm. I'm hungry."

"I'll help you up."

But she resettles herself against his shoulder. "Not yet. Did you talk to the baby?"

His voice grows husky. "I did. She's well." He kisses her forehead. "When I touched her with my magic, I felt her contentment. She's a quiet little soul who takes things as they come."

"A wonderful counterbalance to her drama-driven parents." Thinking, Belle plays with a loose button on his shirt. "Serenity. Let's call her Serenity."

"She'd like that."

* * *

"No wards?" Regina mutters to herself as she uses her magic to scan the cottage slumbering before her. She clicks her tongue as she tosses the angry pixie into the air, releasing her. The setting of protective wards around one's home is the most mundane of nightly practices for a sorcerer, and Rumplestiltskin has ignored it. Three years of soft living have made him careless—or have they? Could this be a trap set by the Dark Trickster? The queen scans the cottage again, with the same result, and her magic assures her two people are sleeping within. Yes, Rumple has grown sloppy in his old age: she will soon find out if he's grown slow as well.

Her magic peers through the walls. The bedroom—there's only one—is at the southeast corner of the little house, which hums with magic. So he did not build it by hand: why, then, this humble place? His magic could have easily re-created the Dark Castle—couldn't it have? Or has his power declined too?

Oh, this might not be any fun at all.

Regina transports herself into the bedroom. Bundled beneath blankets are two forms, the smaller one a mass of hair pressed against the bare chest of the larger one. Oh how sweet. After all those years alone, the ugly little imp is finally getting some. That must have been some spell he cast upon Belle all those years ago, to still be holding strong. Or more likely, he renews it periodically, dropping something in her tea: infatuation spells—for there's no such thing as a love spell—fade away after a month or two. Belle probably aided in perpetuating the spell: money like Gold's and magic like the Dark One's have an appeal all their own. The more interesting question for Regina was what _he_ saw in _her_: surely her rose-colored-glasses outlook grew wearisome long ago. Besides, her legs are stubby and her ankles thick.

Regina cracks her knuckles. The next bit will require some finesse, and she's better with bulldozer magic. She selects thin, strong ropes of magic from her arsenal and wraps them snugly around Belle, then commands the ropes to raise Belle straight into the air. Apparently becoming aware of the absence, Rumple stirs, but he merely draws the blankets to his chest and goes still again. Very good. Regina now hauls in her catch, setting Belle on her feet and banishing the ropes. As she catches Belle around the waist from behind, Regina produces a cutlass that she presses to her prisoner's throat. She allows Belle to awaken now, and the girl gasps.

"Awfully early for a neighborly call, isn't it, dearie?" A shrill giggle draws Regina's attention to the rafters. "My, my, your manners have eroded shamefully." A bedside light is snapped on.

Regina stares at the form snuggled beneath the blankets. In the light she can see it's nothing more than an ordinary watermelon.

"You son of—"

"Now, Your Majesty, don't pretend you've ever met my mother." The voice tsks, then suddenly becomes cold and deep. "Release Belle before I kill you."

Regina looks up and about, but she can't see him: an invisibility spell then—oh, that requires quite a lot of power; maybe he hasn't grown soft after all. But he _is_ weak: the squirming, sputtering little trinket beneath the cutlass is proof of that. Regina tightens her grip before the imp can spirit Belle away.

"Where are you, you product of the bowels of Hell?" Regina searches the rafters. "Invisible? Or is that spider in the corner you?" She explodes the spider.

Over the racket Belle sets up, Regina can't hear anything from the rest of the room. "Shut it," the queen growls, conjuring a gag. "Rumplestiltskin! Where are you?"

Silence. Regina pushes up against Belle and her cutlass draws a thin line of blood across the delicate throat. "Smell that, you demon? I'll spill more if you don't show yourself."

Silence. Now Regina becomes aware that something's off: through her fingertips locked around Belle's waist, her magic is detecting something irregular. There's the heartbeat of the frightened rabbit caught in Regina's trap, but there's more. . . .

Suddenly there's a warmth at her back. Before she can react, a hand snakes around the queen's throat and another grips her hair, pulling her head back. A chilling voice booms in her ear: "Let Belle go before I snap your neck."

"You need glasses, old man. Or else you'd see the sabre I have pressed against your sweetheart's throat. It takes five minutes to strangle someone. I can slash her throat in under five seconds."

"You forget, dearie, time has no meaning here." The nails of the hand dig into the hollow at Regina's throat. "Feel that? No, not the air seeping from your lungs: the magic seeping from your body."

"What?" He's not lying: Regina feels power being leeched from her, an ounce at a time. So, he's been practicing: she's never seen him perform this particular stunt before. "Didn't know you had it in—" And then suddenly Regina gasps. She knows what's off-kilter now: the magic thrumming through her fingers has reported back to her. In shock she releases Belle. "Two!"

Belle steps away and spins around, clutching at her throat to staunch the blood. The grip around Regina's throat immediately releases and a flash of gold light passes over Regina's shoulder to engulf Belle. When the light dissipates, Belle's injury has disappeared.

"Two heartbeats," Regina says to herself. Then she looks over her shoulder at the stone-faced man standing behind her. "You—"

"You'll leave them alone if you value your life," the half-man/half-imp growls. "If I would kill my own father to protect my grandson, just imagine what I would do to save my daughter."

Thoughts of the dagger retreat to the back of Regina's mind as she's flooded with conflicting emotions. The one that manages to swim to the top is confusion. "But you still have your magic."

"Yes, and now a daughter on the way."

"But sorcerers can't reproduce. It's the price we pay for our magic." Regina's hand falls to her own belly and pain fills her dark eyes.

His eyes, still full of distrust and anger, though sympathy flickers too, remain locked on Regina. "It's what we've always assumed. No practitioner of magic could bear a child–unless she traded her soul for the privelege." He bares his teeth at Regina. "All the more reason for me to kill anyone who threatens my baby or her mother."

Regina sits down on the bed, shaking her head slowly. "Never. In any of the realms. I was the only child born of magic." She glares at Belle. "I don't suppose—nah, you're as pure as Snow. Besides, there's no other man here for you to fool around with." A new thought occurs to her and she sneers at Rumple. "The Fates chose to give this rare gift to. . . .Why _you_?" The rest of her question hangs in the air: _and not me?_

"I don't know," he admits. Now he glances at Belle, who's staring at him in pure love. "I think that's why. Because Belle loved me."

Regina's scowl passes back and forth between them. Then her eyes suddenly brighten. "If it could happen for the likes of you. . . ."

"Maybe it could," Belle suggests. "But revenge is a selfish bitch that takes up an entire heart, once it's let in. Not even Hercules could batter his way into your heart as long as revenge lives there."

"You talk in cliches. Has pregnancy drained your brain cells?"

Rumple walks away, waving a dismissive hand at the queen. "Come on, Belle; I'll start breakfast. Go home, Regina. You won't find the dagger. Go home and start a life."

Stunned, the queen retreats to her air-conditioned tent to think through this dilemma. She must not harm the Fates' chosen child, but she _will_ have that dagger.

* * *

**A/N. Coming up: Rumple's history repeats itself: power or a child?**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Is she gone?" Belle asks with forced casualness. Her hands aren't shaking as she moves about the kitchen, putting on the kettle and slicing the bacon for breakfast.

"From the house, but not from the island. She wants the dagger, but she's afraid what will happen if she harms the baby in the process." He exchanges a grin with her.

"So, in a way, she's afraid of me," Belle preens.

"For the next seven months, you're untouchable to her." As he passes behind her to set the table, he reaches around her and pats her belly. "Thank you, baby."

"She'll look for opportunities to separate us, then, so she can attack you, unhindered by me."

"Most likely. But you'll protect me, of course."

Belle winks at him. "Stick with me, sugar." As the bacon sizzles on the skillet, she cracks eggs into a bowl. Suddenly she stops, an egg in each hand. "What are we going to do?" She sets the eggs down and her fingers curl around a dishtowel. "We can't go back."

"You have to have a doctor. We have to give Serenity a healthy start."

She spins on him. "But Storybrooke isn't healthy for you."

"She can't grow into her destiny here. She needs schools, libraries, society."

"Even if they did nothing to jail you or send us away, we can't live like that. We'd be outlaws, outcasts, and so would Serenity."

"They gave me an option before they exiled me: if I gave them the dagger, I could return." He's not looking at her now; he's afraid of what he'd find if he did.

"Who would you allow to control you? Who would you curse with that burden?"

"If I gave up my magic, I wouldn't have to be controlled."

The eggs clatter into the bowl and Belle grasps the counter. "Oh, Rumple. Give up your magic?"

"They would let us back in then. They would let her in."

"But the magic is who you _are_."

"Who I was. Even a three-hundred-year-old dog can learn new tricks, sweet one."

His reference to age reminds her. "You'd be giving up immortality too." She has to sit down; her breath has left her.

He turns off the stove before the bacon can burn and sits down beside her. "I won't pretend that doesn't give me pause. But the thought of outliving my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren is equally unappealing. I'm ready, Belle, to be a man again. Our daughter offers that opportunity to me: let me take it. I think I can find peace with it. I won't find peace here, separated from my daughter and my son."

"She will never know what you've given up for her."

"Here's the secret I learned about being a parent: What your child gives you is much more valuable than anything you're required to give up." He leans forward to wipe a tear from Belle's cheek. "And I'll make sure she knows how much I appreciate her gift to me."

"Your mind is made up, then. We're going back. We'll need to go soon, I suppose."

"The sooner, the better. We'll have a honeymoon tonight and leave in the morning."

"And a wedding this afternoon. After breakfast, while you work on the mermaid cuffs, I'll draw the dress I'd like." She resumes preparing the omelets. "Will you conjure it?"

"Gladly. And a tux for me."

She grins over her spatula. "Oh, I do admire you in a tux!"

"Exactly what a blushing groom needs to hear, my darling." He cuts a couple of slices of bread and lays them on their plates.

"Will Regina know what we're doing, do you think?"

"I suppose so. But as long as you stay close to me, I'm safe."

"Rumple. . . are you sure about the magic?"

"I'm sure a chance to raise our daughter is worth that price," he says carefully. "Whether I can go through with it. . . you're my strength, Belle. You make me strong enough to try."

* * *

Even with a Danielle Steel book playing on her conjured iPod, Regina is bored, bored, bored watching the ratty little cottage for signs of movement. The loving couple have spent all morning inside; just imagining what they're doing in there makes Regina's stomach churn. Sooner or later, they're going to wander off in opposite directions, and then she can pick off the Dark One without touching the Fates' darling. She drums her fingers and waits and waits.

When they finally do emerge from the cottage into the afternoon light, they're holding hands. How droll. And the Darling is dressed in a billowing white gown—a wedding gown, nonetheless!—and the Dark One's in a tux, his hair brushed and hollow cheeks closely shaved for a change. He looks halfway presentable as he leads her down a narrow path, past the Lost Boys' camp, past the vegetable garden, down a hill and into a glen. As they stroll, the girl picks wildflowers, so that by the time they've reached the middle of the glen, she has a bouquet. How romantic.

Regina hovers nearby, listening, as he shouts out in pidgin Pixish. After some hesitation, a squadron of pixies appear, floating well above head, so he can't touch them. Their experiences with humans (and in his tux Rumple looks almost human) have made them wary. He speaks to them in soft, respectful tones, letting them ask all the questions they like, and he offers a gift of chocolate-dipped honeycomb. They sniff it, and when they recognize the honey (a special treat for them) the pixie leader breaks off a bite. The others watch closely as the leader chews, then swallows, then pronounces the candy edible. She signals her second-in-command to break the treat into equitable shares for all.

As they eat, still maintaining their distance, Rumple fumbles for words. The sounds he makes as he tries to pronounce Pixish are inelegant and sometimes ridiculous, but he plows on, trying to explain to creatures who reproduce magically and who have no concept of conception that they wish to get married and they're inviting the pixies to the wedding. A full half-hour later, the pixies are no closer to understanding what a wedding is, let alone marriage, but they do understand what a party is, so they agree to join in the ceremony. They flit around the glen, gathering treats for the party to follow the ceremony.

Regina shakes her head in disgust at this sham wedding. A mockery, that's what it is: what else could it be considered when the King of Cruelty is pledging fidelity and affection? And the "as long as we both shall live" business really takes the cake when the Eternally Evil One speaks it. Regina folds her arms, taps her foot and waits for her opening.

* * *

Belle has gathered a collection of daisies, bluebells and wild roses by the time they've reached the center of the glen. Rumple conjures a spray of baby's breath to add to her bouquet. "How do you feel, wife?" he asks.

"Loved," Belle answers. "How do you feel, husband?"

"Alive," he replies. "More alive than I have in centuries. If you're ready, then, I'll call the pixies."

She nods. "Ready."

"Let's not mention who I am, exactly. The legends of Dark Ones past and present aren't likely to win us any friends. I'll introduce myself as Rumplestiltskin."

The pixies come, but they're suspicious: he eventually learns from them what Regina did to their sister yesterday, and what the Lost Boys and pirates have done over the centuries. He invokes the name of the Blue Fairy, which catches their interest; when Belle shares some news about her fairy friend, the pixies relax. He then explains his purpose for summoning them, and a half-hour of confused conversation ensues. He struggles, not only to translate between the pixies and Belle and himself, but also to describe a human institution that the pixies can't relate to. Belle finally breaks the logic loop with a simple statement: "We wish to ask the Fates to allow us to be together forever."

"Sisters in a tribe," the pixie queen Cryline guesses. "Yes, tribes are forever." Her lieutenants nod. "Even beyond the death of individuals."

"Yes," Belle settles for this explanation. "Even beyond death."

"A commitment rite," one of the pixies suggests. "Like when a new pixie is created and she joins the tribe."

"Yes, that's what a wedding is like. We're inviting you to celebrate our commitment ceremony with us," Belle says.

"We always follow such ceremonies with a party," the pixie queen suggests.

"And so do we."

Cryline claps her hands and barks an order to the squadron; they dash off in various directions, "gathering delicacies for the party," the queen explains.

"Thank you," Belle says, and Rumple sweeps his hand in a circle, his magic producing a banquet table, to which the pixies add their contributions. "And my personal gift for you," the pixie queen announces. "If you are ready to begin the commitment rite?"

"We're ready." Belle links her arm in Rumple's.

She waves a finger, and six pixies form a row behind her. When she nods, they begin to sing. Neither the bride nor the groom understand the words, for the song is ancient, reaching back to the earliest days of Neverland and the first pixies to come here. It's beautiful nonetheless, reminding Belle of the Royal Choir of Avonlea in the days before the Second Ogres War.

When the song has concluded, the pixies curtsey and fold their hands in silence.

Rumple takes Belle's hands in his and they face each other. He has never attended a wedding in Storybrooke, but he's seen enough movies to have an idea of the language of the traditional ceremony, and he has a dim memory of the words exchanged in the peasant weddings of his village, three centuries ago, when he was a human and still invited to such ceremonies. . . before he was a branded an army deserter.

He's not sure he believes in the old religions any more, nor any of the modern ones, but he calls out to those spirits he's never seen anyway. "To the Mother of earth and all the creatures who walk upon it, and to the First Father of man, my beloved and I beseech you. To Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, who set us on our earthly paths and determine when our journey is finished, my beloved and I beseech you. To the spirits of all who have loved as we do and have chosen to bind their lives together forever, my beloved and I beseech you. Hear us, we ask, and bless us on this day. Bless the family that we create today and bless our family to come."

Cryline announces, "On behalf of the pixie nation of Neverland, I, Cryline, Queen of the Mayna Tribe, welcome you. We hear you and with all our hearts we offer you our blessing for a long and happy life together. May your tribe—your family—grow in love as it grows in numbers."

"Thank you," Belle responds, and Rumple bows before turning back to Belle.

"I, Rumplestiltskin, spinner of Loameth, pawnbroker of Storybrooke, hunter of Neverland, take thee, Belle of Avonlea, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish forever, and thereto I give thee my pledge." He has conjured an unadorned gold band that he now slips onto her finger.

Belle too has a ring to offer—one that she found in his pawnshop a year ago, on the evening she decided she would dive into the ocean. "I, Belle, princess of Avonlea, librarian of Storybrooke, gardener of Neverland, take thee, Rumplestiltskin of Neverland, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish forever, and thereto I give thee my pledge." She slides the ring onto his finger.

He cups her face in his hands. "Forever."

"Forever," she agrees, and she kisses him.

The pixies sing again, this time a tune that Rumple suspects is a war-victory song. It sounds joyous anyway. He leads Belle in a dance that doesn't quite fit the time of the song, but she doesn't mind. When the song has finished, Cryline asks, "Is there more?"

"A feast!" Belle says. The pixies cheer and make a beeline for the buffet.

"It was very interesting," Cryline says. "Thank you for inviting us."

"Thank you for being with us today," Belle answers.

"And for the music," Rumple adds.

"Perhaps we will see each other again. We have a winter festival that you might enjoy."

'Thank you, Your Majesty, but we'll be leaving Neverland tomorrow," Belle says. "To return to our tribe." She begins to explain about the baby, but getting the pixies to understand weddings was hard enough: human reproduction would be well beyond their ken. So she links her arm in Rumple's and suggests, "Let's eat."

Hidden among the trees, Regina closes her spyglass in annoyance. "Sweet as treacle," she complains. "I suppose they'll be inseparable tonight. Unless I create a distraction. . . a fire, maybe, in that smoke house of his."

Hours later, the party has broken up, the banquet table and its remaining scraps have been conjured away, and the pixies have headed for home. But the Dark One and his bride, surprisingly, are not leaving the glen: instead, the perky princess has released her lover's hand and stands apart from him. Best of all, he's speaking the word Regina so longs to hear. The queen summons her spyglass again and sits up straight.

"Under my orders, he won't bring the dagger back to me," Rumple is saying, "but if he has any vestiges of me left, he'll come to you."

Belle releases her husband's hand and walks away from him. "How do I call him?"

"Stand in the light and think of darkness."

Belle moves this way and that until the sun is directly behind her and her own shadow stretches long across the grass. Staring at her shadow, she searches for signs of life or sentience or something that would explain it as a being, capable of independent movement and thought. She sees no such sign; in fact, it doesn't look like a being at all, just a long patch of shade. She wonders what separating from one's shadow feels like, what not having one feels like, how extra lonely Rumple must have been before she came and he didn't even have a shadow to walk with him.

She closes her eyes and imagines total darkness. It's very difficult: against her eyelids, red and yellow flickers of light dance. She keeps trying, ignoring the ache in her back and her feet from standing still so long. She thinks his name over and over. A whisper of wind ruffles her hair and she feels cold.

"Belle," her beloved calls softly. She opens her eyes to find she's standing in darkness. "He's here," Rumple explains.

The shadow chills her skin but at the same time, she feels protected, as if Rumple is standing behind her, holding her, instead of reclining against a tree yards away. A scent wafts around her, the scent of the junipers and pines of the Enchanted Forest, mixed with the aspens and spruces of Maine, mixed with the mustiness of caves and the saltiness of the sea, mixed with a faint hint of Clive Christian 1872—Mr. Gold's preferred cologne. The shadow is all of him: the spinner, the sorcerer, the pawnbroker, the prisoner. She feels serene and sad at the same time: surely without his shadow Rumple must feel cut off from his past, and therefore even more alone.

The shadow is waiting.

"Bring me the dagger," she says aloud. The darkness and coolness surrounding her suddenly lift and she tilts her head back; now she can see the shadow with its blank eyes. It hovers over her, blocking out the sun. "Go," she instructs, and it streaks across the sky, vanishes into the forest.

Sunlight now overwhelms her and she has to look down.

She glances over her shoulder at Rumple, seeking his approval; she can't read his expression as he watches her, but he says nothing. They wait and stare at the sky.

* * *

Regina's heart pounds. This is the moment she's waited for. She's going to have to move fast, though: snatch that dagger from the shadow as soon as it appears. A moment's hesitation and she'll have to fight both the Fates' Darling and Rumple. Not that she can't win against them, but the vengeance the Fates would enact if that baby's harmed would be terrible and permanent.

* * *

**A/N. Coming up: Rumple battles two for the dagger: Regina and himself.**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**A/N. Here she is, Crazykat! The savior has two big jobs to do for Rumple.**

* * *

"Hey, Belle, Gold! No, don't shoot; it's me, Emma!" A red-jacketed figure emerges from the brush and all heads turn: the bride's, the groom's and that of the uninvited guest hidden in the trees. There's a different reaction from each: a shout of welcome from the bride, a warning from the groom and a string of muttered swear words from the queen.

"Stay where you are, Sheriff," Rumple urges, waving his hand downward. "Don't come any closer or you'll scare it off."

"What's going on?" the new arrival scowls, but she's been a law officer long enough to heed a civilian's warning; she fades back past the tree line and searches her surroundings for a threat. Her hand flies to her belt, but she's gunless: then she remembers she's a sorceress of sorts and conjures herself a Glock. "Who's 'it'? And why are you dressed like wedding cake figurines?"

"We just got married!" Belle laughs. "If you'd only come an hour ago."

"Belle," Rumple calls out, pointing to the sky just as the sunlight is blotted out.

Belle turns her face heavenward. The shadow has returned and hovers just above her. "It senses a stranger," Rumple informs them. "Stay back, Emma. Belle, call to it, sweetheart."

Belle collects herself, shakes her hair back over her shoulders and commands in a clear, strong voice, "Give me the dagger." She raises her open hand.

The shadow dips down. She feels a cold breeze passing over her, then just as quickly it's streaking across the glen. She watches over her shoulder as the shadow hovers over her husband. It seems to be thinking, but its decision is made when Rumple demands, "Come back to me." The shadow makes a nosedive at him. Belle gasps, afraid for him, but when the shadow makes contact with his body, it's absorbed. He rolls his head on his shoulders experimentally, then grins.

The sunlight glints off the slice of metal that's been dropped into Belle's hand. She blinks, blinded by the light, then begins to lower her hand, nervously, for she knows the magic she now holds. She holds the dagger loosely, she knows her thoughts are now the Dark One's commands, and she abhors this power.

A bolt of lightning strikes the dagger and Belle gasps. Startled, her hand burnt, she drops the dagger and the lightning seizes it, pushes it up into the air once again and begins to pull it forward.

"Emma! We have to stop it!" Rumple shouts, throwing his own hands into the air. His magic blasts from his fingers, crashes with the lightning bolt, and sparks fly and pop as the two forces battle. "It's Regina!"

"That's the dagger she's stealing!" Belle adds. She runs forward, thrashing at the dagger, but the heat from the competing forces pushes her back.

"Belle!" Rumple calls again. "Take cover!"

Belle hesitates, still fixed on retrieving the dagger, but Rumple shouts again, "Serenity!" It's all the reminder she needs to run to her husband's side.

"I came to warn you about Regina," Emma's voice rings out her hiding place. "Guess I'm a little late. Shouldn't have stopped for that second donut." She raises her hands and does her best to remember her lessons. _You must ask yourself, 'Why am I doing this? Who am I protecting?' Feel it_. With a frantic glance at Rumple, she calls to her mind's eye the faces of her son, her parents and her husband: people who will be destroyed if Regina gets the dagger. A cold calm falls over her as she assures herself she has power equal to Regina's and more importantly, she has loved ones. Electricity and heat surge through her entire body; she commands them to focus in her hands, and when she raises her hands toward the lighting-fight going on overhead, her magic strikes out, strong as steel, concentrated as an arrow. Her magic is green, she notices; Regina's is purple and Gold's is, of course, gold. The dagger floats in mid-air in a muddy brown cloud.

"Pull it towards me," Rumple instructs.

"Gotcha," Emma agrees, glancing at him. How bizarre it all looks: this wizard in a tux, his hair matted in sweat, standing in a glen with a bolt of energy pouring from his raised hands. Beside him, her white gown fluttering in the breeze created by the battle, Belle watches and nurses her burnt hand. Emma imagines a rope, and her magic becomes a lasso that she drags toward her as she moves through the trees toward her allies. The dagger inches forward.

Suddenly Belle grins. She gives her husband a quick kiss on the cheek and with an "I have an idea!" vanishes into the trees.

"Belle!" Rumple shouts after her. But he dare not pursue her: the dagger is inching closer now. "Belle, come back!"

"What's she up to, Gold?" Emma now stands beside him and together they're drawing the dagger straight back. It's easier now, with them standing side by side; their magic blends as soon as it leaves their hands and when it strikes Regina's, it's a combined force. His magic makes a lasso too, and together they pull. The dagger jerks forward.

* * *

A crash in the brush forces Regina to break her concentration just slightly, so she can look over her shoulder; she feels her magic sputter and jerk as a result. "What the hell?"

Belle is standing behind her. The wedding gown is soiled and Belle is sweating and her hairdo's collapsed around her shoulders, but she's beaming like the new bride she is. Regina blinks just a second before Belle's hands, the sunlight glinting off her new rings, rise over Regina's head and come crashing down, bringing a large coconut with her.

* * *

"—in any danger," Belle's voice is pleading as Regina comes back from Unconscious Land. "She won't use her magic against me."

"Belle, never assume you know what a desperate sorcerer will do. They don't even know themselves until they do it," Rumple argues.

"But I'm okay. Just a little dusty and burnt."

"We'll get some salve on that. I'll get some from the bathroom."

"Hate to break up this little husband-wife chitchat," Emma interrupts, "but what are we gonna do with her?"

Regina forces her eyes open and is confronted immediately with three unpleasant facts: night has fallen, meaning she's been unconscious at least an hour; the four of them are in a well-lit kitchen, with, from the smell of things, a venison stew bubbling on the stove and a loaf of bread baking in the oven; and she's handcuffed by ankle and wrist to a wooden chair.

Surreptitiously, she sends a blast of magic to the handcuffs, but she can't open them: apparently the sheriff has hexed them.

Rumplestiltskin returns from the bathroom with a small jar and a washcloth—and the dagger tucked into his belt. Regina growls and gives her bound hands a tug. As he spreads salve on Belle's injured hand, Belle suggests, "Why don't we leave her here?"

Emma is skeptical. "Running loose? With her magic?"

"Without the right ingredients she won't be able to conjure another mermaid bracelet," Rumple says. "She won't find those ingredients here."

"Is that two votes for exile, then?" Emma asks.

The newlyweds exchange a confused look. "No," Belle says. "Just a thought."

"No," Rumple answers. "I won't be anyone's judge and jury."

"Guess we take her home with us, if we can find a way to control her. Let a real jury decide what to do with her." Emma sighs, and they know it's in relief. She wanders over to the stove and stirs the stew. "I'm starved. When do we eat?"

The newlyweds are still exchanging a look that makes Emma uncomfortable. "What?" When they don't respond, she presses, "Come on, I can see something's up."

Rumple sets the salve aside and sits down at the table, ignoring the prisoner. "Ms. Swan—" and then he notices Emma's left hand, still poking at the stew. "Or should I say, 'Mrs.—"

Emma grins. "How about 'daughter-in-law'?"

Belle gasps and hugs Emma. Rumple looks very pleased—with himself. "I told you, Ms.—Emma: torches were still being carried on both sides."

"Yeah, you did." Emma forks a potato from the stew, then waves it about to cool it. "And yeah, I still had feelings for him. Sorry you weren't there for the wedding, and I wasn't there for yours."

"Maybe we can do it again," Belle suggests softly. "A double wedding."

"But hey," Emma continues, "I have a real wedding present for you." She points a finger at the kitchen table and a tub of Cherry Garcia, decorated with a red bow, appears at Gold's plate. "Emma!" Rumple exclaims, reaching for a spoon. "The perfect gift. Thank you." Then he sets the spoon aside. "But there's still something we need to tell you. Please." He indicates an empty chair. Emma pops the potato into her mouth and seats herself.

Rumple draws in a deep breath. "You must uphold the law. I respect that, and I respect you. I'd rather we be allies, especially now that we're family. But Emma, I'm going back to Storybrooke with Belle, and I won't let you stop me."

Belle comes around to stand behind Rumple, her uninjured hand on his shoulder. "We don't want to have to do this. We're happy here. But there's more than just us to consider now."

"What are you—" Emma's eyes widen with realization. "A _baby_?"

"Her name is Serenity. She's due in May," Belle explains.

"Let's see: my husband's father's kid—that makes her Bae's sister and. . . my sister-in-law."

"We have to go back to Storybrooke," Rumple insists. "Belle needs medical care, and Serenity will need schools, friends."

"Her best chance," Emma agrees. "Yeah, I get that. Well, Gold, I have another wedding present for you, then: there was a recall election. We voted to recall you."

"'A recall'?" Belle echoes.

Rumple has gone pale. "Bae. How did he—"

"He voted for you to come back. So did I, so did Mary Margaret and Archie, so did Henry." Emma lays her hand on Gold's.

"Henry." Rumple lowers his head, his long hair covering his face, shielding his expression from view.

"Henry cast the first vote."

Belle clasps a hand to her mouth. "What a special young man."

"Yeah, I think so. There's a hitch, though. I had to make a deal for this." Emma reaches into her jeans pocket and produces a small pill container. She pries the lid off with a thumbnail and taps the contents out onto a table: it's a translucent kidney-shaped bean.

"A portal." Rumple inspects it. "Where did you get this?"

"It's a synthetic. Blue and Tiny managed to produce it after studying the remains in the bean field." Emma's boot slides sideways and kicks Regina's ankle. "The one this witch destroyed, after all the hard work my dad and the dwarfs put in. Remember, Regina? That's another one you owe us."

"The price?" Rumple prompts.

"You can come back if you're willing—" Emma stares down at her plate in embarrassment. "God. This wasn't my idea; I want you to know that. Or Bae's. Or Mary Margaret's or David's or—"

"I get it," Rumple interrupts. "What is the price, Emma?"

"You. . .have to take injections of fairy dust every day for the rest of your life."

Regina snickers, then laughs outright. "Chemical castration!" Her heels strike the floor as she wiggles in her chair in delight. "Dark One, they're going to castrate you!"

"What is she talking about?" Belle demands. "Emma, what are these injections for?"

"They will inhibit his magic. Make him powerless."

"So someone thinks." Rumple says quietly. "Blue, I presume. Fairy dust does indeed inhibit my power—and Regina's and anyone else who deals with dark magic. That underground prison cell you saw in the Enchanted Forest—"

"The one my father kept you in?"

"It was in a mine containing fairy dust."

"You don't—Blue doesn't know what she's talking about," Belle says. "Prolonged exposure to fairy dust, when it's breathed in or comes in contact with the skin, is to a sorcerer like uranium is to us."

Emma nods, remembering what she learned in the prison cell. "He went crazy."

"Imagine, Emma, what it would do to him if it's injected."

"Well," Rumple sighs. "Let's not test it, shall we? I have a counterproposal. I'll give up my magic altogether."

Regina glares at him over her shoulder. "What the fu—"

"No kiddin', Gold? You'd do that?" Emma is impressed. "Wow. There's no way anyone can argue with that."

"It's a trick, you fool," Regina growls.

"It's for my baby, you hedge witch," Rumple snaps back at her. He places the dagger on the table. "There is a theory that if the dagger breaks, so will the powers of the Dark One. It's never been attempted: who would want to lose all that power?"

"But you would."

"I'll never abandon my child again."

"Damn, Gold. I gotta say, that's amazing."

"Unless the offer itself would be enough?" he asks hopefully.

"It would be for most of us, but, you know, the price of the deal."

"Thanks for that, Emma."

Rumple runs his fingertips across the shiny blade with his name emblazoned in the metal. Belle and Emma busy themselves with putting dinner on the table to allow him a few minutes to think. Regina, however, can't pass up the chance to taunt her old enemy. There's an undercurrent of nervousness beneath her teasing, however, as if she's wondering if someone will transfer the injections idea to her. . . or perhaps there's just a sliver of regret, now that her old mentor/rival is killing off his powers.

"Oh, shut up, Regina." Belle shoves a dishrag in the queen's mouth.

They eat their stew in pleasant, idle conversation. Under Emma's watchful eye, Regina is allowed temporary use of one hand to eat her dinner. The dishes are washed—Emma's a little puzzled by why they're doing this chore manually when magic would take care of it instantly, but she accepts Belle's explanation: "It lends itself to conversation." The elephant in the room remains on the kitchen table through all this domesticity, until at last it must be faced.

Rumple swallows. His voice is confident but there's doubt in his eyes. "Now. Let's do it now."

"Okay, Gold."

"Let's go outside. I don't want to set the cottage on fire." He holds the front door open for the ladies. "We'll need a place to sleep tonight."

"It's a nice little cottage," Emma agrees. They walk out into the night, under stars Emma doesn't recognize and a waning moon. A breeze ruffles the leaves overhead and brings in the clean, salty taste of the sea. "Nice night."

"What's the date, Emma?" Belle asks abruptly.

"Uhm, October 16, I think." She adds, for Rumple's sake, "2016."

"I want to remember. It's an important day for us." Belle takes Rumple's hand. "Our wedding this afternoon, and now this."

"So how do we do this?" Emma nods at the dagger in Rumple's free hand.

"You and I together, we concentrate our magic on it, then we blast it to kingdom come. If my magic gives out before the dagger is split in two, keep blasting. It has to break completely." He drags a boulder from the rim of the jungle into the path leading into the cottage, then he lays the dagger upon it and walks back to the porch, where Emma and Belle stand. "Well. . . ."

"Well. . . ." Emma echoes.

"Wait a minute." Rumple turns to Belle. "One last act of magic, something good, something to remember." He reaches a hand toward the night sky, selects a star and points at it, then wiggles his finger. The star flies forward, somehow, as it approaches, remaining the same small size it first seemed to be. The women watch in fascination as the star lands in Rumple's hand. He closes his hand around it briefly; when he opens his hand again, there are two identical stars, the size of a penny, in his palm. He closes his hand and taps Belle's ear; when he takes his hand away, the stars dangle from her earlobes.

"Wow," Emma says. "That's—wow."

"Thank you, darling."

He sighs. "All right, Emma. Let's get this over with."

"Okay." Emma plants her feet apart as if she's a gunslinger preparing for a shootout.

"Wait." He's staring at the dagger, opening and closing his fists. "No, I—" Then he shakes his head and glances at Belle and summons his magic. His mouth drawing in a straight line, he raises both hands, palms out, and sends a blast of magic as powerful as he can produce at the dagger. "Aim at the middle of the blade, at the first 'l' in my name. See it in your mind; see it cracking and splitting open."

"Gotcha." Emma imitates him, sending her own blast of magic after his. The dagger bounces from the boulder, the force of the magic elevating it, and as it glows it throws off sparks in all the colors of the rainbow, and a shrill whine like that of a high-speed drill cracks the night air.

"Keep it up, Emma!" Rumple encourages.

A crack appears lengthwise in the blade, growing longer and deeper as the assault continues. The leather handle of the dagger catches fire; the tip of the blade chips off, and still the dagger holds. Rumple's arms start to shake. "Break, damn you, break!" The metal whines and a new, vertical crack appears in the middle of the blade; shards go flying in every direction. The assault has gone on for a full five minutes now, and Emma is tiring too. Rumple suddenly drops his hands to his sides and falls to his knees. He stares at his hands. "It's gone. The magic is gone. Keep going, Emma. Break the dagger in two."

Belle encircles him with her arms as they watch Emma pour the last of her energy into a tremendous final attack. Then her magic pales and gradually fades until nothing more will come. The dagger clatters to the ground. She lowers her arms, shaking, and drops into the porch swing.

"I'm sorry, Gold. It wasn't enough." She leans her head back and rests her eyes. "But your magic is gone. That's what we needed to accomplish, right?"

The fire on the handle sputters out. Rumple scrambles to his feet and sits down beside Emma. "They'll just have to believe me that the magic's gone."

Emma pats his knee. "Us. They'll have to believe us."

"Your name has disappeared from the blade." Belle steps down from the porch and approaches the boulder. "Won't that be proof enough that the curse is broken?"

"It will have to be," Rumple says tiredly.

Belle balances herself against the boulder as she kneels to pick up the dagger. "It's hot." She comments, taking it into her hands. She walks forward, carrying the dagger in both hands.

"Don't burn yourself again, sweetheart."

"Ice!" Belle suddenly exclaims, running into the house.

"What's she doing?" Emma wonders, but Rumple shakes his head.

In a few minutes Belle has returned, waving her hands in the air. "Rumple, look!" She lays two halves of the dagger in his lap.

"It broke!" Emma exclaims. "What'd you do?"

"I dunked it in ice water. The heat had expanded it; the cold made it contract too fast and the blade broke in two."

"Brilliant, sweetheart!" Rumple passes the dagger fragments to Emma and pulls his wife onto his lap for a kiss.

"I should've paid attention in science class," Emma grumbles, inspecting the broken dagger. "Okay, Gold, looks like our work is done. Let's get some sleep." She stands and slides the dagger pieces into her jacket pockets. "I had a long swim this morning and I'm bushed. Where am I bunking, Belle?"

"The couch in the living room. I put linens out for you." Belle stands and looks to her husband. "And Regina? What should we do with her?"

He shrugs. "Show her the dagger. She'll get the idea. Beyond that, it's up to the sheriff; she's in Emma's custody."

"You got a blanket we can toss on the floor?" Emma asks. "We'll leave her cuffed for tonight, but might as well let her get some sleep too."

"In the hall closet," Rumple instructs. "You go ahead, Emma." He urges Belle to sit back down in his lap. "It's our wedding night. I'm sure you understand."

"Oh, sure." Emma opens the front door. "Good night, congratulations, and see you in the morning."

"Not too early in the morning, if you don't mind," Belle says as she lowers her lips to her husband's.

Emma pauses. "Gold—just thought you'd like to know: he doesn't go by Neal any more. He goes by Baelfire."

"Thank you, Emma."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

**A/N. Check out "Exiled"'s new cover, by Emilie Brown! Many thanks, Emilie, for artwork that captures perfectly the moods I tried to convey with this story. Coming up on the end: there's an epilogue after this chapter. Thanks to all who've read this story and especially those who reviwed it.**

* * *

Her energy renewed, Regina begins her verbal assault afresh as soon as Emma unfurls herself from the Golds' couch in the dawn light. She alternates between threats, warnings (her favorite theme being Rumplestiltskin's trickery) and complaints about the uncivil way she's been treated. Emma hauls her into the bathroom and flips on the light only to discover the electricity isn't working any more. She realizes then that it was Gold's magic that powered this house; she renews the power so they can have light and hot water.

"You got five minutes to do your business," the sheriff informs Regina, then positions herself in the open doorway with her back to the prisoner.

"How do you expect me to attend to 'business' with my hands still cuffed?" Regina protests, but the sheriff shows no mercy, answering, "You're a smart woman, Your Majesty. Figure it out."

Taken aback by the phrasing, which she's sure she'd heard somewhere before, Regina stops her griping and. . . takes care of business.

By the time the women emerge, Belle and Rumple are in the kitchen, preparing pancakes and sausage. Emma catches some of their soft-spoken conversation.

"I'll need some help re-adjusting: Archie's and yours," Rumple is saying.

"How do you feel," Belle asks, "without the magic?"

"Slower. Older. Aware of how many things in the world can be bumped into or tripped over or cut upon." He lifts his chin to show where he's cut himself shaving.

They greet Emma as she leads Regina into the kitchen. "Pancakes this morning," Belle announces.

"And boar sausage. Made it myself," Rumple boasts. "The slow way. Boar's got a strong flavor that takes some getting used to, but you can always—" he flicks his wrist, poising his palm to receive a conjure, then remembers and clears his throat in embarrassment. He reaches into the refrigerator to procure a bottle. "You can always douse it in ketchup," he finishes awkwardly.

Belle pauses in her batter mixing to lean her head briefly against her husband's shoulder. "It'll be okay," she says softly.

He kisses the crown of her head. "Yeah."

Emma pretends not to notice; she feels a bit embarrassed herself, having magic she doesn't want when he, who does want it, can't have it. Roughly, she plunks Regina down at the table, in the same chair as last night, and locks her down.

"Coffee, tea or coconut milk?" Rumple pours drinks for everyone, then begins frying the sausage. Emma notices he's spending a lot of time poking unnecessarily at the patties, but she says nothing: he's earned some private thinking time. Belle too is unusually quiet as she fires up the griddle, and that's when Emma has to intervene, because she's gotten to know this couple pretty well over the years: silence is no stranger to Gold, but it's an unwelcome inhabitant to Belle.

"Hey, uhm, I'm sure my mom will want to organize a baby shower right after we get back," Emma tries. "In fact, don't be surprised if she doesn't even let you unpack first."

Belle offers a half-hearted smile. "She's sweet."

Emma gets up to set the table. She watches her hosts move around the kitchen in the commission of their chores; unlike herself and Bae, who tend to goof around a lot, Belle and Rumple seem to speak to each other in soft touches as often as in quiet words. The Golds are a waltz—whereas the Swans are a slam dance.

As the first round of pancakes is browning, Belle brings down a Tupperware sandwich box and offers it to Emma. "Here, put the dagger pieces in this. That way, if you fall when you jump through the portal, you won't get poked."

"Thanks." Emma sits down to do as Belle suggested. She studies the cold, charred bits of leather and metal as she drops them into the container: amazing to think this thing was older than the Sphinx or Lucy the Cavewoman or anything that exists on this planet. It's even more amazing to think of the wars that were won or lost, the cities and lives destroyed, the kingdoms that rose and fell at the hands of those who controlled the dagger. Someday she'll ask her father-in-law about the history of this dagger, the men who possessed it and the men who were commanded by it (or were there some women too?), but not today. It's too soon.

Emma tries to imagine something that means as much to her as she suspects magic does to Rumple, so she can then test herself: would she give it up for Henry? But it's a futile game, for nothing she's ever owned would be a great sacrifice to lose.

"Hey," she suggests, "Blue being Blue, I'm sure this isn't the only bean she produced. What's to stop you two from coming back here sometimes, like a camping weekend? Some people go to Yellowstone; the Golds go to Neverland."

Belle occupies herself with dishing up the pancakes so she doesn't have to answer. "Sure," Rumple says, "I'm sure we'll do that sometimes, when Serenity's old enough." But there's no enthusiasm in his voice.

Belle tries to lighten the mood. "So, Emma, what's changed in the time we've been gone?"

"Well, let's see." Emma conjures a tin of cinnamon to sprinkle on her pancakes. "Henry's in middle school. Bae's the night editor for the _Mirror_. Phones have gotten smarter, TVs have gotten wider, computers have gotten smaller. Cars can park themselves now. And you can talk to your stove, tell it what settings to use. We finally opened the library and it's where all the cool kids hang out now. There's a 'help wanted' sign in the window." She glances meaningfully at Belle.

"Not for long."

"You think you'll reopen your shop, Gold? It's all still there—except what Regina pilfered."

"I simply made use of things no one wanted," Regina argues. "It's called 'recycling.'"

"It's called shoplifting, and you'll return them," Emma argues back. "So, Gold? Going back into business?"

His back remains turned to the table as he drains the grease from the sausage. "No, I have a hidden talent for folding nappies, so I think I'll become a househusband." He fills a platter with the sausage and places it on the table. "You ladies go ahead with breakfast. I want to. . check on the smoke house before we go." He leaves the house without looking at anyone.

"He just needs a moment," Belle apologizes, seating herself. "It's not the loss of Neverland; it's the loss of magic. Once we get back and he sees Bae again, he'll start to get used to it." She smiles faintly. "And so will I." She lifts the platter. "Sausage, Regina?"

After the dishes have been washed and put away, Belle empties the refrigerator, dumping the contents into her garden. "From whence it came," she pronounces, then corrects herself. "Well, some of it was conjured. Let the wild animals have it all."

"That big backyard at Gold's house is just beggin' for a garden," Emma says, but Belle only nods. Emma slides a comforting arm around Belle's waist. "You'll have time to plant before the baby comes."

"Did you know, Emma, I never did learn to drive?" Belle blurts. "Between getting kidnapped by my own father, getting shot by Hook, then Pandora's Box and the Darlings—" she suddenly drops her head onto Emma's shoulder and begins to sob.

Emma conjures a hanky for her and pats her shoulder. Wisely, the sheriff doesn't try to talk her out of her tears. She just lets Belle cry.

"I just feel so sorry about the magic. I don't know why," Belle sniffles when she's finally regained control. "He's going to be better without it; he'll see that and he'll be glad he gave it up. Eventually. And it's what I always wished for him—well, not so much that he lose his magic, but his curse. . . .And we'll have our house and Bae and Henry and the library and Granny's hamburgers and I can learn to drive and he'll be so happy, taking care of the baby. . . ." She starts to sob again.

"It's just the hormones. Pregnancy screws with your emotions," Emma offers.

"Don't tell him, Emma." Belle pulls herself together with one last snuffle. "That I cried. I want him to think I'm happy, because I am."

"Sure." Emma gives Belle's waist a squeeze. "Hey, soon as we get back, I'll ask my dad to teach you how to drive. Behind the wheel of that tank of his, you'll be the queen of road."

Belle forces herself to smile. "Sure, and when I have my license, you and I will go car shopping. That boat of Rumple's is nice, but I want something zippy."

"A convertible," Emma suggests. "A bronze Stingray."

"Let's go back inside," Belle pockets the hanky. "We left Regina alone long enough."

* * *

The three women stare into the vortex that Rumple has opened with the synthetic bean. "Everybody ready?" he asks cheerfully, and Emma thinks he might really feel it now. He's been asking about people in Storybrooke ever since he came back from the smoke house and brightened considerably at every mention of Bae or Henry. Belle's probably right, Emma thinks; with family to focus on, he'll get used to it all eventually.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Regina huffs, thrusting her bound wrists toward Emma, who feigns ignorance. "Well? You're not going to leave me like this, are you? I might get hurt when I fall."

Emma shrugs. "I have a first-aid kit in the jail." She gives Regina a little push. "You first."

With another huff, Regina jumps, neatly tucking and rolling as she falls into the vortex.

"Maybe something for Belle, though?" Rumple prompts, and Emma conjures one of those padded suits used in self-defense classes.

"I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy," Belle giggles, but she takes Rumple's hand and with a last glance back at their cottage, they leap.

Emma peers after them. "I thought magic was supposed to be painless," she grumbles. "Here goes nothin'." Then she jumps.

"Crap," Emma mutters, picking herself up from the center of Moncton Street. "Forgot about the time difference." They've arrived, according to the library clock, at one a.m. and the town's long gone to bed. There's no Welcome Wagon to greet them, nor a party waiting at Granny's; not even a stray dog comes out to see the new arrivals. "Hope you're not too disappointed."

"It's better this way," Belle says. "It'll give us time to acclimate." She tugs at the padded suit she's wearing. "Emma? Will you remove this?"

"Sure. Sorry." In a puff of smoke, Belle is now wearing a t-shirt, leather jacket and jeans that reflect Emma's taste, but the Golds refrain from comment.

"Sheriff's office first." Emma starts walking and her prisoner, surprisingly subdued, tags along. "If you'll come along with me, after I lock Regina up, I'll take you over to the _Mirror_ to see Bae."

"That's fine," Rumple agrees. His step increases; Belle can't remember a time in this world when she ever saw him move with such alacrity.

As they walk, Emma points out the new downtown shops: Ella's Bridal, Jared's Jewelry ("but not that Jared," Emma says quickly, to her guests' confusion), Bibs 'n' Babes, Blackwell's Medical Equipment, Renfield's Funeral Home. "Since time started moving again, we suddenly had need for these businesses that nobody needed before."

"You said 'we,'" Belle observes. "Do you think of Storybrooke as home?"

Emma blinks. "Yeah. I guess I do."

As they round the corner to Main Street, a tall form steps out of the shadows and plants himself before them. "Good evening, ladies, Your Majesty." He bows, the appendage that's replaced his left hand gleaming in the streetlight. His tone chills. "Crocodile."

"Hook, what the hell—"

"It's about time," Regina grumbles. "What kept you?"

He grins, but his patented smile wins no one over. From his leather coat pocket he produces a vial, the contents of which glow orange and turquoise.

"Hey, you stole that from my shop." Rumple complains.

Hook produces a silver dollar from his pocket and tosses it at Rumple's feet. "Now it's paid for." He nods at Regina. "Your wrists, love?"

"You're interfering with the law, Hook," Emma warns. "I'd suggest you consider three little words: 'I've got magic. You don't.'"

"That's five words," he corrects. "Really, Swan, I'd expect better of a graduate of the public school system." He unstops the vial and pours its contents over Regina's handcuffs. Magic sputters and fizzes a moment, then the handcuffs pop open and Regina summons her magic, causing the jail jewelry to vanish.

"Surely you didn't think I'd spend the night in jail, did you?" Regina smirks. "When you have your little court date set, send word to my home." She slips her hand into the crook of Hook's arm. "Until then, I have a business to run. My attorney will be by in the morning to pay my bail." With a flourish of her hand, she and Hook vanish.

Emma sniffs. "Joke's on her." She glances at Rumple. "You're still the only lawyer in town."

"She'll be hard pressed to find representation, then," Rumple comments. "Unless she conjures it."

"If she does, I'll conjure help of my own," Emma says. "Marshal Dillon and Judge Roy Bean."

There's a single light on in the newspaper office, but as Emma and the Golds approach, the _Mirror_ suddenly goes ablaze, its glass doors fly open and a body careens out. "Em!"

"Nealfire!" the sheriff squeals, allowing herself to be literally swept off her feet. "I missed you, babe" they exclaim in unison and kisses are exchanged. Questions and answers fly: "You okay?" "I was only gone overnight." "No injuries?" "Nope, except Regina stepped on my toe when I arrested her." "Did you have to fight her?" "Magic fight. Belle's hand got burned, but everybody else is okay. Regina got away, but I can pick her up when I need to." "We won't wo—"

Bae suddenly falls silent, staring over Emma's shoulder at her companions. He sets her down and extends his hand hesitantly to his father. "You came back."

Rumple takes a single step forward, his face full of longing, but he accepts the handshake as a poor substitute. "Hello, Bae."

When their hands connect, Bae's face crumbles and he lunges forward, grabbing Rumple, pulling him in, gulping down tears. "Papa. Welcome back."

"Forgive me, Bae," Rumple whispers, stroking his son's hair. "I can never make it right, but I'm asking anyway: forgive me."

"If you'll forgive me too," Bae asks.

Rumple stares in confusion into his son's eyes. "Whatever for? You did what any father would do to protect your son."

"But you gave your word and I didn't believe you."

"You had reason not to. I let you down horribly, too many times." Rumple holds a hand out to the sheriff. "Emma, if you please—?"

"Oh, sure." Emma digs in her jacket and finds the Tupperware, which she hands to Rumple.

"This should help." Rumple passes it to Bae.

"No, it's not a sandwich," Emma chuckles.

"No," Rumple says, "it's a token of good faith."

Bae drags his visitors into the light and warmth of the office. Emma's grinning as Bae pops the lid on the Tupperware.

"Is this—Papa, is this the dagger?" Bae picks up a metal fragment, tracing his finger over the scrolled 'R.' "Papa?" He looks up in shock. "It is!"

Rumple nods.

"Your magic?"

"Gone."

"Damn." Bae leans against a desk, inspecting the contents of the Tupperware. "Damn, Papa."

"It'll be okay."

Bae sets the sandwich box aside and throws his arms around his father again. "That's somethin'. That's really somethin'."

"Let's go home," Emma suggests. "I could use a beer and a bear claw."

* * *

There's no fuss, and the Golds prefer it that way.

They move back into the mansion as quietly as if they'd just been on a Hawaiian honeymoon. The place is filthy with dust—Belle couldn't be happier. She has the library by day and the pink house by night to take care of. Even better, Bae sold off the Caddy, so she and Rumple now need to buy a new car, and he leaves the shopping up to her and Bae: he's preoccupied with converting his downstairs study into a nursery.

Archie comes by on the first day they're back home; he takes them to lunch at Granny's. They're stared at, but Archie confronts the gossipers head-on: he takes his charges by the elbow and walks them around the diner, re-introducing them. "Just back from Neverland," he says, fixing any critics with a dare-you stare.

Only Granny doesn't back down. "Stay away from Henry," she warns, but she brings them the meal they've ordered.

"Give her time," Archie says.

"If she doesn't come around, she doesn't come around," Rumple says philosophically.

"She'll come around when she hears about the baby," Belle answers.

David and Snow drop over in the evening, bringing fresh-baked cookies and apologies that Rumple quickly dismisses. He doesn't want to talk about the past three years, he says. No, it's not that he wants to put Neverland behind him; he just doesn't want to talk about it. He and Belle exchange a meaningful glance: Neverland is theirs alone. So David talks to Belle about cars and Snow talks to Rumple about the nursery, and that night, as they ready for bed, the Charmings wonder how that happened: Belle doesn't seem exactly the car-crazy type any more than Gold seems the bassinette-and-crib type. "Times are changing," Snow shrugs. "People are changing," David adds.

When people ask her what happened on Neverland to change her husband so, Belle has a simple answer: "Serenity's coming."


	15. Chapter 15

Epilogue

**A/N. Fair warning: a fluffy Rumple lovefest follows. He's earned it.**

**Thank you, Grace, for sharing the unbroken swing theory. It added a dimension to the story, giving me a reason for Archie, Bae and Emma to begin to second guess the expulsion. Thank you, everyone, for reading "Exiled."**

* * *

After school, Henry is spotted going into the pink house.

Two minutes after he's entered the house, Regina's on the phone with the sheriff, in a panic over the boy's safety. Regina's concern sounds genuine when she asks, "What if the Dark One decides to take his revenge against the rest of us out on Henry?"

"He won't. He's a changed man," Emma says brusquely. "Besides, that prophecy thing doesn't matter any more. He was undone, prophecy's been fulfilled, end of story."

"Don't be naive, Ms. Swan. He may be related to you now, but he's still the Dark One and only a fool would trust him."

"Actually, no, he's not the Dark One, in any shape or form, any more. I suppose, in a perverted kinda way, we have you to thank for that. You going after that dagger pushed him into destroying it."

"Precisely why he must be kept away from Henry. Gold wouldn't dare attack me directly; he'd hurt me by hurting Henry."

"Bae and I gave Henry permission to visit his grandparents after school–any of his grandparents–as long as he checks in with us first. I trust him with Belle and Gold just the same as I do with Mary Margaret and David. If you're worried, why don't you call Henry and check on him, and kindly stop wasting the taxpayers' money by calling my office."

Ten minutes after Henry has gone inside, a black Mercedes parks across from the pink house, the driver spying through the bay window–until Deputy David gives the owner a ticket for parking in front of a fire hydrant.

After that, Henry's seen dropping in at the pink house pretty regularly, when he doesn't have ball practice: with his parents and the Charmings at work, Henry enjoys having a place to hang out, even if Grampa Rumple isn't much help with US history homework.

A few days pass and Rumple finally allows himself to be talked into visiting his shop so he can decide what to do with all that stuff. It took him several lifetimes to amass that collection, but he doesn't want any of it any more: he's in a new lifetime now, and besides, without magic, some of this stuff is worthless. The rest belongs to the past. As he and Belle pore over the inventory list that Gold so meticulously maintained, Rumple decides abruptly nothing here is worth the work. To Belle's amazement, he tears a chunk of cardboard from a box and in magic marker scrawls on it: "Take what used to be yours. No charge." Then he props the front door open and escorts Belle to lunch.

He encounters Blue in Granny's. He glances at her, then through her; she raises her chin. "Good day, Rumplestiltskin. I must say, what you chose to do impressed me. You made the right decision."

"Indeed?" is his only reply.

Slowly, others come by, some offering a welcome home, some offering business dealings. Belle greets them all equally warmly, but Gold is disinterested in receiving either type of visitor. He warms up to Home Depot clerks, Bibs 'n' Babes clerks, the Lamaze trainer and Doc.

And then he surprises everyone when, the day after Serenity comes out of the hospital, all pink and perfect, the Meanest Man in Town is seen pushing her pram around the park. The surprise expands into shock when he and Serenity join the library's infant lapsit program. There's resistance: the mommies don't trust him, they tell each other—although in private they watch the Dark One buying groceries with his one-week-old tucked away in a Baby Bjorn; they watch him throw a stained towel over his shoulder to protect his Armani jacket when he burps his one-month-old; they watch him drop to his hands and knees on a picnic blanket to demonstrate crawling to his studious five-month-old, never minding the humiliating laughter of passersby; they watch him clutch the hand of his tottering one-year-old, as snugly as he once clutched his cane, and shrink his steps to match hers as they patter through Belle's garden to chase butterflies.

Even more aggravating: on October 16 of each year, the Meanest Man leaves his precious daughter with his precious son for a week while he takes his precious wife on an exotic vacation to some tropical isle. Belle will never say where they go: the Golds are notoriously secretive.

The mommies watch the Dark One do all these sweet things for his family, then the mommies go home and punch their own inattentive husbands in the arm.

* * *

Two months after the Golds' return, Regina is put on trial; a month later, it's Hook's turn. Lawyers have to be conjured in from another realm. The Golds are asked to testify for the prosecution; Rumple is also called by Regina's attorney. Both trials end quickly in a guilty decision. When asked on the street what they think about the irony that two of the "jurists" who voted to exile Rumple will now be exiled themselves for three years, the Golds refuse to comment.

Just before the sentence is carried out, Regina must face another trial: a class action lawsuit brought by Jefferson and Grace/Paige's Storybrooke parents on behalf of thirty children caught between two families by the curse. Rumple allows himself to be dragged out of retirement to represent the plaintiffs. He's soon back at the library lapsits, though: the jury reaches a decision in under two hours. Regina is forced to sell her business and her mansion to pay the penalty.

When Regina and Hook have served their sentence, Regina is offered a deal similar to the one offered Rumple: she will be allowed re-entry to Storybrooke if she never practices magic again. For the rest of her life, she will have to wear the magic-inhibiting cuff Rumple took from Greg and Tamara. Regina rages for three unbroken hours before she relents–and when Snow fastens the cuff to her wrist, Regina promptly marches off to Jared's Jewelry.

She has the cuff encrusted with diamonds.

* * *

"Serenity's changed us," Belle observes, leaning over the playpen.

"And she'll do it again," Rumple adds. "Over and over."

Belle studies her husband: funny, although he claims to feel older without magic, he looks to her more youthful. Perhaps it's his slightly shorter haircut, which draws attention to his cheekbones, or perhaps it's the exercise and sunshine he's getting with Serenity. But most likely, she thinks, it's the peace he's found with his family around him and his days of deals and power chasing behind him. "You changed yourself."

"I promised you once that I'd start listening to you, and so I did." One thing about him hasn't changed: he's still uncomfortable with praise, even from his wife.

* * *

If the sins of the father are visited upon the child, perhaps the good deeds of the child may be, to some small extent, visited upon the father. At least, that's what Archie wonders, because Rumplestiltskin starts dropping in on him soon after arriving home. At first it seems impersonal: Chamber of Commerce stuff, questions about zoning laws and municipal taxes and road development. But gradually the topics become slightly personal, and eventually, Rumple asks to "avail [himself] of" Archie's "former professional services." Archie considers this a breakthrough for Rumple. . . and a great professional coup. He expects to hear confessions of horrible deeds, followed by pleas for assistance in changing evil ways; but instead Rumple's questions tend to be about current theories of child development. It seems, Archie thinks, that even if the town hasn't, Rumple has left the Dark One behind on Neverland.

"What was it like, those years alone?" Archie asks, and Rumple smiles ruefully. "Which time, Doctor?" Archie then remembers the silence of the Dark Castle, and he comes to realize it's not isolation Rumple needs help coping with: it's integration into society. And so this is how the psychiatrist directs their conversations, with the frequent reminder that Serenity will look to her father just as much as to her mother for guidance in learning how to deal with the hurt people cause each other.

Rumple is relieved the dagger (which, oddly enough, he allows to be put on display in the library, along with other historical artifacts on permanent loan from the permanently closed shop) will never tempt anyone again, especially himself.

And he's _mostly_ glad, he says and Archie believes him, to be free of magic, at least of the kind of magic he was cursed with. Rumple is moving on, he says–and Archie learns that he really doesn't lie.

* * *

The ice cracks, though it never really thaws, between Rumple and Blue when at age four, Serenity is hospitalized for bronchitis. She's there for three days, with her parents taking turns at her bedside–and with hospital volunteer Blue making frequent visits, bringing balloon animals, origami creatures and coloring books. Serenity takes to the austere nun. She's a strange child, Belle admits; she's drawn to the shy, the lonely, the misunderstood. Belle thinks she'll become a psychiatrist like Archie; Rumple remarks (but only to Belle) that if they were living in the Enchanted Forest, he would suspect their child of being an innate possessor of healing magic. But they're in the Land without Magic, so of course that's impossible.

Belle doesn't remind him that Serenity was conceived in Neverland.

In the three days of her hospitalization, Serenity becomes quite fascinated with–well, the Golds aren't sure if it's Mother Superior or the fairy queen. Blue provides a welcome distraction from the pills and the needles, and Belle expresses her gratitude warmly–Rumple, less so, but still sincerely. For what parent can stay angry with someone who remarks, "This child is a gift to Storybrooke"?

Rumple suddenly remembers a small detail that's been scratching at the back of his mind. "When she came to Neverland, Emma had a pair of handcuffs that inhibited Regina's magic. That was your doing, wasn't it? Your fairy dust."

"Regina had to be stopped. With the Dark One's powers, she would have been out of control. I've seen many Dark Ones come and go: she would have been among the worst–and, I imagine, the shortest lived." Blue seems to deliberate with herself, but she finally comments, "You were the longest lived, and, as Dark Ones go, the most self-controlled."

When they're alone, Belle observes, "That's the closest you'll ever come to a compliment from Blue."

"There was one other, even if she didn't intend it," Rumple grins wickedly. "She called Serenity 'a pure-hearted little soul'–and whether that comes from nature or nurture, Ren is half mine."

* * *

Belle, with her easy smile and affectionate nature, wins over the children who visit the library, and as a result, one by one she wins over their parents, so much so that when Archie chooses not to run for a third term, her name appears as a write-in on many a ballot. She simply laughs at this: she laughs easily these days.

Rumplestiltskin is never completely forgiven, nor are Hook and Regina; but the specifics of the Dark One's crimes are relegated to the mists of time and the anger the community holds against him grows vague. Fear dissipates, for who can fear a slight, graying man pulling a preschooler in a Red Flyer wagon to the encouragement of "Faster, Daddy!"

And when Rumple stands outside Storybrooke Elementary with unashamed tears wetting his face, waving as Snow White ushers his five-year-old into the kindergarten classroom for the first time, Hook, passing by in his Trans Am, pulls over to watch. The pirate thinks about Milah before he shifts into first gear and continues on to work.

Hook isn't sure, but when Serenity turns to wave goodbye to her daddy, he thinks he sees sparks of gold fly from her fingertips.


End file.
